


Sunlight

by ReynardinePotter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Belated update to Explicit, Cookery show, Divorced Greg Lestrade, Drug Addict Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greg is not a policeman, Greg is not straight and I'm going to leave it as that for now, Happy Ending, If you have questions please let me know, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Is this a coffee shop AU?, Light Angst, M/M, My First Fanfic, Mycroft is as you would expect, With force if necessary, anthea ships it, i might add tags as i go, oh gods - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-11-12 01:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 36,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReynardinePotter/pseuds/ReynardinePotter
Summary: Mycroft's secret guilty pleasure is watching cookery programmes late at night.  The consequences reach further than anyone could have predicted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fanfic. I've not written anything that isn't a dry, academic essay or work-related document for well over a decade. Please be kind!

Exhausted from a long day and an even longer night, Mycroft opens the door to his flat and promptly stumbles over the doormat.

Righting himself, cursing under his breath, he leaves the umbrella to drip in its stand by the door and hangs his overcoat in the hallway. He trudges through to the living room, sinking gratefully onto the sofa. He tilts his head back, face towards the ceiling, and closes his eyes with a heartfelt sigh.

After a few moments he sits up, stretches his hand out for the remote, and turns on the television. He’s not fully aware of it, but his shoulders drop a fraction when he realises which programme is currently showing.

Mycroft has been fortunate enough – or perhaps unfortunate, depending on your view – to catch a handful of snippets in the past few weeks. Sherlock may be spiralling again, resisting all of Mycroft’s attempts to help, but at least the early morning hours are the prime time to catch this show.

He finds the food programmes comforting because, for the most part, he can switch off his brain. They rarely show anything other than contrived conflict, and there are very few examples of hidden agendas. There is no murder, no intrigue and no unexpected outcomes beyond whether or not a jelly will set or a cake will rise. There are no excess calories to burn.

However, they are not all equal. He’s not sure exactly what it is that appeals to him so strongly about this one. The recipes show signs of being flavourful without being frivolous, the host is competent, and his manner isn’t condescending. If Mycroft weren’t perpetually watching his weight, it would be the sort of food he would cook for himself. The kitchen is designed to seem similar to what one might find in a well-appointed house rather than a specialist cookery studio; in fact, given how comfortable the presenter is, it may well be his own home.

Perhaps, he considers, it is the host himself. Mycroft is aware that he has a ‘type’, and certainly many of his metaphorical boxes have been ticked – approximately the same height as him (going by how easily he reaches items in the cupboards), strongly built (evidenced by the enticing fit of his shirts and the way he handles the heavy chopping board), and just a peppering of grey threading through his otherwise dark hair. Warmly expressive brown eyes and a ready, genuine smile against sun-kissed skin were exactly what Mycroft wanted to see at 2am after spending the better part of the night stalking London’s streets in the rain, tracking his wayward brother.

Not that he was ever likely to have that beyond the cold glow of a television screen.

Shaking himself out of his introspection, he focuses back on the show. He’s come in partway through, which is fortunate. He’d seen the first half of this episode last week before falling asleep in an uncomfortable slump on the sofa. He settles in to watch Greg, the host, explain how to make his family’s version of a beef and red wine stew - “or boeuf bourguignon, as my grandfather would call it”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polite feedback gratefully received. Let me know what you think! I'm writing this a few chapters ahead of where I'm posting, and hope to upload every few days, real life permitting.
> 
> I've been asked for the recipes - for boeuf bourguignon, my favourite recipe comes from a book called "Cuisine Grand-Mere: Traditional French Home Cooking" by Marie-Pierre Moine. I've never found an online link for it, but it's definitely worth buying the book (probably via Amazon; it was first published in 1990!). Very few ingredients, but each of them vital; the most important of the lot being time. Hours and hours of time. You cannot rush this dish, and I wouldn't recommend using a slow cooker.


	2. Chapter 2

Another week brings another series of late nights. Mycroft has come to rely on Greg’s programme to help him unwind before bed, even trying to get home in time to catch full episodes with a cup of tea.

Tonight, instead of relaxing into Greg’s words and movements as usual, Mycroft finds himself leaning forwards, watching for micro-expressions and tells. It appears that something has seriously disturbed Greg – despite some clever cuts and editing, he is clearly struggling, stuttering on some words, barely smiling, and his hands shake ever-so-slightly in the close-ups. By the second half of the show, he has himself under better control; fortunate, as he is due to make a delicate tarte au citron, requiring both a fine pastry and a carefully cooked filling, neither of which would be easy to achieve with that level of inattention.

Mycroft leaves his tea to cool, forgotten, on the table. He watches the credits roll, listening to the voice-over state that this was the last episode, and to stay tuned for--. He turns off the television, not interested in whatever was to follow.

After thinking for a while, he uses his personal mobile phone to search for some background information, concerned that something unfortunate must have happened. He realises it’s futile, as the episode was filmed years ago – there’s nothing he can do, regardless of the fact that any intrusion he might have made would almost certainly have been unwelcome.

A few seconds was all it took to get the information he needed. Greg Lestrade first gained the attention of the British media as the husband of Elizabeth Lestrade, née Steele, who herself came to prominence after starring in some dreadful reality show. Her PR team decided to run an article on their home life, and Greg had made some pastries in honour of the occasion. Probably hoping to capitalise on having both Lestrades on their books, the PR company convinced Greg to give the television programme a shot. He released two full series, and had enjoyed a fair amount of success. Halfway through making the third series, presumably immediately prior to filming the episode that Mycroft had just watched, Greg and Elizabeth had had a blazing row. She had stormed out, and the disagreement resulted in divorce.

Their quasi-celebrity status meant that an already difficult time became a thousand times worse, splashed across the media. Mycroft’s experienced eye could see a professional hand in the mix, casting Elizabeth in the best possible light, and suspected the same PR team were earning their fee. Greg did his best to keep his head down, but was still treated poorly by both the tabloids and Elizabeth’s online followers. Eventually, all his social media accounts were deleted or abandoned in the face of the vitriol. Mrs. Lestrade became Ms. Steele again, and now seemed to spend her time being photographed on the arms of various ageing actors. Any mention of Greg stopped soon after the divorce was finalised, about five years ago.

Mycroft sighed, putting the phone down. He was a little curious about where Greg was now, but realised that there was no point in pursuing it further. He was obviously trying to lie low, and who was Mycroft to dredge up the obviously painful past? He would just have to find something else to watch before trying (and likely failing) to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never expected to get such a strong and overwhelmingly positive reaction to this! Thank you all so much.
> 
> Recipe for tarte au citron - I like a tart tarte, not too sweet. I can't find the exact recipe, but Mary Berry's recipe will get you where you need to go - <https://www.bbc.com/food/recipes/tarte_au_citron_94480>


	3. Chapter 3

Fortunately for Mycroft’s sanity, Sherlock appeared to have halted – or postponed – his search for oblivion. Unfortunately, it appears he had formed a habit of his own; he was now finding it nearly impossible to sleep without a soothing cup of tea in front of the television.

He must be getting old.

Lately, the channel had switched to reruns of old competitions. Previously the unnecessarily dramatic music and contrived suspense had further helped cement its insignificance in Mycroft’s brain; now, it grates on his nerves and irritates him more than it helps relax him.

Giving it up as a bad job, Mycroft knocks back the dregs of his tea and stands, stretching his arms and back before taking his cup back to the kitchen. Yawning, he heads for his bedroom.

After removing his many layers of professional armour, he is still not quite ready for sleep and decides that maybe a shower might help settle him. He walks through to his en-suite, starts the shower and sets it for the warmer side of tepid. While he waits for the water to come to temperature he inspects himself in the mirror. At least his new coping mechanism has been kinder to his waistline – typically when running after Sherlock he turns to comfort food to power through the worry and lack of rest, with obvious consequences. He meets his own eyes, and winces at the bags underneath them. Turning away, he steps into the gently steaming flow, pointing his face into the direction of the spray before starting to wash the day away.

Feeling slightly better, Mycroft dries himself, brushes his teeth, changes into some comfortable sleeping clothes, and resigns himself to staring at the ceiling until sleep claims him.

___  
  


Mycroft manages to make it to 3pm before Anthea catches him showing signs of weariness. They are filling time until the last meeting of the day, and even that is just a routine status update with one of his overseas operatives – nothing to prepare, no influences to bring to bear to ensure the right outcome is achieved.

Mycroft is taking the opportunity to check up on Sherlock’s whereabouts; Anthea is busily pecking away at her phone. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, Mycroft slumps a little further into his chair, closing his eyes for a few beats. When he reopens them, he sees Anthea is watching him, one eyebrow cocked. He glares half-heartedly in response, daring her to pass verbal comment. To his surprise, she accepts the challenge.

“Sir? Is it Sherlock?”

“My brother is doing something unspeakable to some poor corpse’s spleen, and is in no danger at present.”

“Then what is it? You only normally get like this after dealing with committees.”

Mycroft sighs. There is no way to explain that he’s losing sleep over an achingly sad pair of brown eyes and the wavering smile of a man he hasn’t even met. He decides to fall back on old patterns.

“Nothing of consequence. Remind me, is there anything we can prepare for ahead of tomorrow?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still a few chapters ahead. If I have time and real life permits, I might post daily. Wish me luck!


	4. Chapter 4

As expected, the operative had nothing new to report, but Mycroft was glad to have first-hand confirmation of their continued well-being. Despite his icy reputation, he cared deeply for those he was responsible for, as anyone who knew about Sherlock could not help but observe.

The call ends, there’s no more work to complete ahead of tomorrow, and he can see that Anthea is getting ready to make another attempt to decipher what is on his mind. He bids her a good evening and makes good his escape before she can find an opening.

Pulling on his overcoat and with his umbrella in hand as a precaution, he decides to make the best of the dry weather and walk home. He keeps his gaze determinedly in the middle distance, too tired to filter out the deductions that float across his mind, hoping to minimise the influx of information by avoiding looking at his fellow commuters too closely. Fortunately it is relatively quiet at this point in the evening, and after half a mile or so he can feel the benefits of the fresh air.

He turns down a street to the left, idly noticing the headlines at the corner shop as he passes.

 

**ARE MILLENNIALS RUINING TV?**

 

He snorts; Anthea falls into the ‘millennial’ age bracket, and these hyperbolic statements have become something of a running joke between them.

His eyes skim down the rest of the page. The sub-heading also has something to yell about.

 

_DIY, COOKING AND FASHION SHOWS SUFFER THE MOST; EXPERTS SAY THAT MILLENNIAL-FAVOURITE INSTAGRAM IS TO BLAME_

 

The rest of the print is too small to read on the move, but he does see the ubiquitous inset photo of mashed avocado on toast. He rolls his eyes – do these journalists not have any real news to report?

The avocado reminds him that he has no food in the house, though, and he makes a detour to the shop. He plans to exercise before he retires tonight, hoping that physical exhaustion might be enough to grant him a decent night’s sleep for the first time in too long. He doesn’t want to jeopardise his chances of sleep with a heavy meal, and after seeing what’s on offer, decides to replicate a chicory, pear, walnut and Roquefort salad he remembers having in Paris several years ago. He collects the necessary ingredients as well as fresh berries and yoghurt for his breakfast. He tries not to think about why his thoughts have been turning to France so often of late.

After he arrives home and puts the groceries away, he puts himself through his typical workout. He showers, changes, and makes his dinner. He does the washing up, makes himself a last cup of tea (decaf this time, he’s really desperate to get some sleep), and settles once again on the sofa in front of the television. He groans when he realises that they are still running repeats of the same blasted cookery competition, and turns it straight off again in disgust.

For the hundredth time, he wishes that he didn’t have to refuse sleeping tablets as a requirement of his job. He must be available and able to respond at all hours of the day, even though circumstances that demanded his immediate, personal attention were few and far between. Or rather, non-Sherlock circumstances were rare – his brother seemed to take a perverse delight in choosing the least opportune moments to create a crisis which needed Mycroft to drop everything and race across the city.

He lets his face fall forwards into his hands; he has no idea what else he can do to unwind. He’d even had a rare wank in the shower in case the problem was unrecognised sexual frustration, but that had just served to remind him of how empty his flat felt, and how long it had been since he’d had company of any sort.

He didn’t even want to think about how long it had been since he’d had ‘company’ that he’d also cared for.

Recognising that he was creeping towards maudlin self-pity, Mycroft scrubs his hands across his face, rasping at the stubble, and turned his brain towards trying to find a solution to his predicament.

On autopilot, he pulls out his personal phone again for another check on Sherlock. No new alerts had been forwarded on – which Mycroft dimly realised was odd for some reason, but couldn’t quite grasp why through his fatigue.

Running over the events of the day in reverse, trying to work out why his hindbrain was trying to tell him to worry, his mental slideshow brings up the headline he’d scanned on the way home. A tired lightbulb sputters begrudgingly into life.

Navigating away from the alerts, Mycroft downloads Instagram and sets up an account under _parapluie_roux_ , linked to a freshly-created matching email address. He takes a hasty photograph of his immaculate bookshelves for the profile image. He thinks this is suitably anonymous, and again skirts away from thinking too closely about why he chose to use French in his ‘secret’ identity.

It takes him a few minutes to work out the mechanics, but soon he’s happily scrolling through beautifully staged photos and creatively composed videos of food from all around the world.

By the time he has followed a few interesting tags and profiles, he is aware that his jaw is less tight, his shoulders are no longer around his ears, and he has sunk even further into the sofa. It seems his hunch was correct – combining the recently-discovered food trick with having more control over what he sees is enough to convince his systems to relax.

To avoid another accidental night sprawled on the sofa, Mycroft completes the rest of his normal night-time routine, gets into bed, and idly scrolls through the soothing images until he finally, finally, succumbs to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time of writing, parapluie_roux is not an existing Instagram account. I checked!
> 
> Recipes - I can't resist posting the controversial Nigella avocado-on-toast link, don't @ me - <https://www.bbc.com/food/recipes/smashed_avocado_on_toast_89082>
> 
> For the chicory salad, I've only ever eaten it in a restaurant but this recipe looks pretty close - <https://www.raymondblanc.com/recipes/chicory-walnut-pear-and-roquefort-salad> \- I'm a big fan of punchy flavours


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft only has fifteen minutes to relish the first full night’s sleep he’s had in ages before it all goes to hell.

He has just shuffled through to the kitchen to make coffee for his breakfast when his hindbrain finally manages to get his attention. Well-rested, even if under-caffeinated, he now quickly makes the connection between last night’s lack of report about Sherlock, and the worry that is rapidly turning to panic.

He usually receives a notification whenever Sherlock moves location; no alert last night either meant that he was still at the morgue, bothering the poor night shift workers, or he had evaded Mycroft’s attempts at tracking him.

Shit.

He runs back to his bedroom to send a text to Anthea, asking her to investigate. While waiting for a response, he takes a rapid shower and goes about dressing as quickly as possible. Situations like these happen all too often, and who knew when Mycroft might next get a chance to come home?

His stomach sinks when Anthea rings as he adjusts his tie. A call inevitably meant that there was bad news; he fervently wishes that this is not the day he receives the _worst_ news.

\-----

Sherlock had indeed slipped the tail Mycroft had put on him. He’d taken the opportunity to get as high as possible on whatever he could quickly get his hands on.

Unfortunately, in his haste, he wasn’t as picky with his suppliers as perhaps he should have been, or maybe he miscalculated his doses. Whatever the reason, he’d collapsed on the street, and had been whisked off to hospital on the verge of death.

Mycroft didn’t blame the person who should have been watching Sherlock; he used it as a training exercise for the newer recruits, the only way he could justify using his division’s resources on a personal matter. The trainees were not as proficient, but tended to be more eager to succeed and were less predictable – a valuable thing when trying to hoodwink a Holmes. On average, the risk balanced out. Usually.

Mycroft blamed himself for missing an opportunity to raise the alarm earlier, preventing Sherlock from being hospitalised. Sherlock, when he was awake again, would blame Mycroft for not finding him sooner – in his absence, Sherlock’s official next of kin had been informed of his condition.

Their parents were now involved, and there is no way to conceal the extent of Sherlock’s problem from them.

\-----

More than twenty-four hours after he had received Anthea’s call, and Mycroft still hadn’t been home. He was rapidly rediscovering that one good night’s sleep does not make up for several weeks of sleep deficit.

At first, he had sat by Sherlock’s bedside, waiting for him to come around. His relief that his brother had survived was somewhat tempered by the realisation that the damage might be permanent. It was further dampened by the knowledge that his family might never speak to him again – Sherlock for letting their parents get involved, and his parents for not getting them involved sooner.

Waiting for them to arrive, Mycroft ran over the situation again, but still couldn’t find a better solution. Neither of the Holmes brothers got on particularly well with their parents. It was clear that having their mother and father hovering over Sherlock, tutting about his addiction, was simply going to push him further away and beyond Mycroft’s reach. He had long ago decided that the best way to manage the situation was to promise his parents that he was indeed keeping an eye on their angelic Sherlock, while simultaneously trying to keep Sherlock out of the worst of his messes without totally alienating him.

Six hours later, and they were here. Mycroft had been turfed out of the room, relegated to the communal seating area outside. He waited there until Sherlock had woken up; the furious argument between Sherlock and their parents had been the clue. He had tried to enter the room again, to see for himself that Sherlock wasn’t suffering any ill-effects. This had been a mistake; all of his relatives turned their ire on him instead. At least it was proof that Sherlock’s mind and lungs had survived intact.

Eventually it was decided that Sherlock would be sent to rehab, whether he wanted to go or not. Mycroft spent the next few hours arranging an immediate space for his brother at the nearest centre which offered the type of therapy Sherlock might best respond to. After that, he arranged a hotel room for his parents, who were exhausted from the journey into London. Finally getting plans settled to his satisfaction, he had reclaimed his chair next to Sherlock’s bedside, watching his baby brother sleep through the night, barely noticing the nurses performing their regular checks.

He had witnessed the icy-cold silence between his brother and his parents when they came by in the morning before his transfer to rehab. Mycroft himself was pointedly ignored. He travelled with Sherlock to the centre, making sure he was checked in properly, and intimidated the director into being especially vigilant in his care.

Mycroft comes back to himself, blinking in the sunshine on the curb outside. He desperately craves a cigarette. Instead, he calls Anthea to get an update on the latest happenings at the office – she tells him that everything is under control, and in no uncertain terms orders him to go home and get some sleep. She then hangs up, preventing any argument.

He stares at the phone. He isn’t ready to go home, but if he goes to the office he will have to contend with the wrath of Anthea. While he’s waiting for a decision to coalesce in his foggy mind, he decides to walk down the road, hoping that the repetitive motion of putting one foot in front of the other will help jog his brain into gear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mycroft, nothing ever seems to go in his favour at the moment.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft has been walking for about half hour with no particular destination in mind; he decides whether to turn left or right depending on how easy it is to cross the road, or how crowded the pavements are.

Eventually, he realises that the distant rumble he was ignoring was actually his stomach. He’s shocked when he remembers that the last real meal he’d had was the chicory salad; he hadn’t had time for breakfast before racing to the hospital, and once he was there he was too worried or harried to consider eating.

He stops to get his bearings. His mental map of London has been updated since he last had need of it – he’d trained himself to assimilate information almost without thinking about it. After a little while, he spots the pattern. While scrolling through Instagram, he had apparently made a note of where particularly appetising images had been posted from. He rolls his eyes at himself, imagining what Sherlock would say if he knew that his brain automatically collected information about cake.

Still. He was hungry, and he was still suffering from the emotional fallout of his familial trauma. If there was ever a time for indulgence, surely this was it.

The closest one was, luckily, a ten-minute walk from his current location. He searches for the full website online, and is glad to see that they are both open, and are a combination of bakery and cafe. He turns around and heads towards Cafe Anatole.

He arrives mid-morning – after the morning rush for breakfast-on-the-go, and before lunch hour – so he has his pick of the few tables with little competition. He notices a sign saying that table service was the norm, but is distracted by the pastry cabinet; in fairness, it was the first thing one saw upon entering the cafe. The pastry offerings, savoury and sweet, were ranged in neat rows behind glass to the left of the door; the breads were in racks and stacks along the wall behind it. This display reached nearly the full depth of the room, before turning 90 degrees to the right where a till was placed. Next to the till, behind the gap in the counter, was the door to the back; presumably the bakery and kitchen. On the other side of the gap, the final stretch of the back wall contained an intimidating array of coffee paraphernalia, and another till. The rest of the floor space was taken up with an idiosyncratic collection of furniture in companionable clusters.

Mycroft tears himself away from the cabinet, and claims a well-worn high-backed armchair next to a small table. The chair faces into the rest of the cafe; given the nature of his early career, he always feels most comfortable with his back to the wall and with a clear line of sight to as many entrances and exits as possible.

Given the modest size of the place, the menu was surprisingly extensive. He was concerned that, given the wide range of options, his sleep-deprived brain would struggle to choose between them. However, he was pleased to see that there was a whole page dedicated to tasting plates; one could have mini versions of traditional pastries, lesser-known regional French delicacies, or a neo-traditional assortment with more experimental flavours. Feeling nostalgic for his childhood, he decides to have this week’s version of the regional plate with a cafetière of freshly ground coffee.

The waitress soon delivers his order. There was a chocolate Merveilleux, a perfect slice of gâteau nantais, and an individual kouign-amann. He had seen this exact spread in one of the Instagram posts, but of course photos could never do more than evoke memories of the delicious aromas. He breathes in the scent of the Merveilleux’s whipped chocolate cream, the luxurious almonds and rum of the nantais cake, and the intoxicating caramel and warm butter from the kouign-amann. The bitter undertone of the coffee rounds it out.

As Mycroft works his way through the plate, sipping his coffee as he goes, he is transported back to happier times; before Sherlock discovered that the world was cruel and didn’t understand him; before Mycroft realised that the only person he could truly trust was himself. As young children, Sherlock and he had spent several long summers with his Grandmere Vernet, who had returned to the place of her birth after the passing of her husband. At the time it was paradise on earth; only later did they realise that their parents were looking for a way to get them out of the house for weeks at a stretch.

Sadly, his grandmother had died years ago – on days like this, he feels the loss keenly. He had always felt loved in her presence, which is perhaps why the kouign-amann (her personal favourite) was doing so much to salve his wounded heart.

All too soon, he has finished. He’s not quite ready to leave his bubble of peace, however, and orders a pot of peppermint tea when the waitress comes to clear the table. He texts a request for a car to come and collect him.

He sits and watches the foot traffic pass by the window while he waits, holding his tea; soon the lunchtime rush will begin, and he plans to be gone before the hordes arrive.

It is time. He stands and walks to the till to pay. As he waits for the card transaction to go through, he catches movement in the corner of his eye through the porthole in the back door. It’s gone before he can focus fully, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of silver hair.

He leaves a tip, takes a business card (who knows? Maybe he’ll need to buy Anthea a ‘thank-you’ gift for holding the fort by herself), and heads out into the sunshine, stepping into his waiting car.

When he arrives home, he heads straight to his bedroom. He empties his pockets onto the bedside table, dumps his clothes in a heap on the floor, and brushes his teeth while the shower heats up. He steps under the scalding spray, scrubbing the stress and hospital stench out of his pores.

Dried and in pyjamas, he checks his phones in case there were any sudden emergencies. His parents are staying in London for a week “in case Sherlock needs us”, but had not contacted him. Anthea was maintaining radio silence. No updates had been sent by the clinic.

His eye catches the business card; it asks the holder to leave a review or a message about their experience of the cafe.

Feeling the need to do something simply good with the day, he opens Instagram, finds the photo of the same selection he had enjoyed so much, and composes a thank-you note. He hits ‘post’, puts the phone on to charge, and rolls over. He falls asleep almost immediately.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder who the mystery grey-haired figure could possibly be...
> 
> Kouign-amann first entered my life via GBBO, I haven't had the honour of tasting it myself - <https://www.bbc.com/food/recipes/kouign_amann_09102>
> 
> Merveilleux sound marvellous, and definitely something one could make at home - <http://www.gbakes.com/2015/01/the-marvelous-merveilleux.html>
> 
> When I googled regional French cakes, the nantais cake sounded gorgeous, again something you might reasonably make at home - <https://www.nantes-tourisme.com/en/food-and-wine/gateau-nantais>


	7. Chapter 7

In the office of Cafe Anatole, a mobile notification is heard. There is a soft curse and the frantic shuffling of papers as the phone’s owner tries to find it buried underneath that month’s accounts. It’s not that he’s _bad_ at paperwork; he’d just much rather be baking, and leaves the boring stuff to mount up until it absolutely has to be done. He could try and keep on top of it to make it less of a faff, but he’s promised himself he’d stop making promises he couldn’t keep, especially when it came to promises to himself.

He holds the phone aloft in triumph when it resurfaces, grateful for the distraction. He thumbs the sensor to get past the lockscreen, and opens the alert. It’s a comment on a photo from last month; he likes to cycle the tasting plate menus weekly, and it just so happens that the same platter is currently on rotation.

His face drops when he sees how long the comment is. Often people only put in that much effort to write a complaint. Happy customers typically just left a like, an emoji, or a brief ‘thanks, it was delicious!’.

He sighs, and almost closes the app to deal with it later. He eyes the mound of paperwork in front of him, and decides to take his chances with a disgruntled internet-dweller instead.

If anyone had been in the office with him, they’d have seen Greg’s face gradually change from grim determination through all possible shades of confusion, suspicion and hope, ending with joy.

 

**parapluie_roux**

_I visited your cafe after a too-long day of fear, worry and regret. I was looking simply for something to eat, some comfort food to ease my aching soul. You far exceeded my expectations. Your cafe is a haven in the middle of the city; I have not sampled such delicious baking in_ _years_ _, and it reminded me of some comforting memories in my time of need._ _Y_ _ou have no idea how badly I needed to find exactly what you provided for me._ _I hope to visit under happier circumstances in the future._ _My thanks and best wishes to you and all your staff._

 

It wasn’t a complaint; it was the kind of review he dreamt of. Lived for, even.

Receiving such a lovely message about his business and his baking had thoroughly lifted his mood. He had assistant bakers, but he usually set them to making the standard pastries and breads. He mostly did the special items himself, unless someone showed a particular talent or interest. They were too fiddly and time-consuming to make in large quantities, but sometimes he just needed to spend a few hours doing nothing but folding, turning, rolling and shaping buttery dough.

Since the divorce and all that came with it, he had thrown himself into resurrecting his grandfather’s shop. He made sure that his employees understood that he really didn’t want anyone to make a connection between his beloved cafe and his name. He never interacted with his customers face-to-face if he could possibly avoid it. Most people would have forgotten him by now, but you could never be too careful. He didn’t socialise – he’d lost his friends in the divorce, too. Dating, especially internet dating, was right out. He wasn’t ready yet, and wondered if he’d ever want to be. Whenever he started to feel too lonely he forced himself to tackle the never-ending paperwork, or develop a new recipe.

Still, the minor interactions he got via Instagram were (mostly) enough to tide him over. He likes to make people happy, and in turn he likes to know that people value him. The cafe’s social media account was a safe way to get that validation, with the added bonus of increasing footfall in the shop.

Turnabout is fair play; he sends parapluie_roux a direct message to say thanks for the review, and that he hopes things get better for them soon. He switches his phone to silent, buries it in a far corner of the desk, and returns to his accounts. What better way to spend a Friday afternoon?

\-----

Mycroft rejoins the land of the living in the late afternoon with a jolt. Even fast asleep, he listens out for that particular tone. Fortunately, it was not urgent. Anthea had sent him a text to say that she was heading home, and that she’d see him after the weekend. Seniority had its advantages; having weekends off (excluding emergencies) was one of them.

While he was tempted to go back to sleep, he was loathe to further ruin his sleeping pattern. And he was hungry again.

He drags himself out of bed, wraps himself in his cosiest dressing gown, and heads to the kitchen. While he waits for the kettle to boil, he examines the fridge and cupboards. He finds them bare, except for the remaining morsel of Roquefort from the salad, the ubiquitous pint of milk and the makings of the breakfast he didn’t have. He definitely does not have the energy to make himself presentable and head to the shop for ingredients; Mycroft Holmes is not the sort of person who would venture outside his front door in his nightclothes.

Contemplating his options, and considering how many meals he has skipped lately, he decides he can afford the calories of a takeaway. He has a hankering for something warm and comforting, but nourishing too.

He finishes making his tea, and takes a sip. He decides on a gently spiced ramen noodle broth with chicken, filling without being too challenging on the digestion, and with some much-needed vitamins. He heads back to his bedroom to collect his phone. Looking at the screen, he’s alarmed to see a notification from Instagram – who could it be? Why? His thumb hovers over the icon, but his stomach grumbles loudly. He quickly makes the call and places his order, paying over the phone and arranging to have it left at his front door – he doesn’t want to see anybody at the moment.

Food on its way, he returns to the mystery. Why would anyone want to contact him? He was as anonymous as he could be, unless someone had recognised his bookshelves in the photo (only Sherlock might have done that, and he was on a technology blackout). He hasn’t posted anythi-

Ah. Now, that wasn’t strictly true, was it? He winces. He can only hope that the message he’d written to Cafe Anatole was in understandable English; he barely remembers writing anything at all.

He dithers until he grows annoyed with himself, and opens it with a growl. Once again, he was pleasantly surprised – it doesn’t happen to him often, and the cafe had been the source of the feeling more than once today. He has a small smile on his face as he reads the response to his message, and breathes a sigh of relief when he reviews what he had sent in the first place. While full of sentiment, it is still anonymous and unfailingly polite.

The doorbell rings, and he goes to collect his food. While he’s eating, he debates whether he should reply or not. He is sorely out of practice with social interactions outside of the sphere of work or family, but the mask of anonymity makes the risk seem bearable. He bites the bullet, and is gratified to receive a response almost instantly.

 

* * *

**  
** **cafeanatole >**

 

thanks for your lovely review, I’m glad you enjoyed  
it! I’m sorry to hear you had a terrible day, and I hope  
that things get better for you soon

In truth, I feel much better now that I’ve  
slept the afternoon away. The kouign-amann in  
particular reminded me of summers spent in  
France. Where did you learn to make it? 

My Grandpa Anatole was French – it was his  
cafe, and I learned the ropes from him :)  
I found his old recipe cards when I took over the  
place, and the rest is history

Have you visited France yourself? 

Apologies if this sounds like an interrogation, I  
am a little rusty in making friendly conversation  
but I find that I’m need of a distraction; I hope  
you don’t mind. 

Don’t worry! The shop is closed for today and I've  
finally finished doing the books. We’re prepped  
for the Saturday rush already and someone else is on  
the early shift tomorrow – I’m free to chat. 

To answer your question, yes, I have been to France.  
I don’t have much family left in the UK, but I’ve  
always been close to some cousins who live out there.  
I fly over there a couple of times a year. What about you?  
Have you been recently?

* * *

 

The conversation goes on in a similar vein until Mycroft’s eyes start to droop. He’s loathe to stop talking to the fascinating man (for a man it surely was, from what he’d picked up in conversation), but knows that he has some catching up to do over the weekend after his impromptu absence from work. He says as much, and wishes him a good night.

For Greg’s part, this is the most he’s ‘talked’ to someone in months. He’s amazed at how easy it is to just chat. He feels so comfortable talking to the guy (at least, he thinks it’s a guy), it’s like he’s known him for years. He says goodnight too – he’s planning a morning run around the park, even if he doesn’t have to do the early weekend shift. Being boss has its perks.

Both men go to bed happier than they’ve been for a while, and drift into dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contact!
> 
> Of course Mycroft Holmes would get chili chicken ramen from somewhere much more upscale than Wagamama's, but it's one of my favourites and always makes me feel better when I'm feeling like death warmed over - <https://www.wagamama.com/recipes/homemade-chilli-chicken-ramen>
> 
> I've now caught up with my prepared chapters. I've hit a sticky patch with my RA so it might take me a little while to get back up to speed and post the next chapter, but I'll get there! If you want to nag me, I'm on Twitter and tumblr.


	8. Chapter 8

They chat sporadically over the weekend, both of them reluctant to let this new connection fall by the wayside. They hit it off straight away – talking about cities they’ve visited, art exhibitions they’d like to see, their opinions on the correct way to adorn a scone with jam and cream, and their favourite books. At no point do they exchange names, but they have discussed their personal circumstances enough to have Mycroft confirmed as a man to Greg, and for Mycroft to learn that no-one else at Cafe Anatole has administrative access to the social media account.

Greg signs off at a respectable time every evening, citing his need to wake up early. His body clock is set in its way by now – he’s either needed at the cafe to get the baking underway, or he goes for a run around the park. With no reason to stay awake, and feeling a lot easier in himself since this unexpected friendship, Mycroft goes to bed soon after. This is probably a contributing factor to why, when Mycroft arrives at his office on Monday morning, it is with more of a bounce in his step.

Anthea almost stares as he passes her desk. The alarming bags beneath his eyes have begun to recede, and he looks less like a walking corpse.

“How are you, sir?”

“I am well, thank you, all things considered. I have caught up on all that I missed while I was...otherwise occupied...and there have been no further incidents. How was your weekend?”

“Fine, thanks, sir.” Mycroft walks on towards his office. Anthea gathers the necessary papers together, and follows a few steps behind.

As he settles behind his desk, she hands over the files and ventures, “If I may, sir, you’re looking very well this morning.”

“I have found it easier to rest these past few nights, knowing that my brother is under constant watch at the best sort of facility to offer him the help he needs.” He smirks a little, and continues, “I have also so thoroughly upset my parents that they haven’t invited me to dinner and a show; I cannot truthfully say that the loss of this privilege has greatly influenced my mood for the worse.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir.” Anthea is well aware of Mycroft’s views on the types of production his parents insist he attend with them. Sometimes she takes pity on him, and calls to extract him from the theatre. Most of the time she indulges in a little schadenfreude and lets him suffer through to the bitter end – a harmless revenge for the strain the job puts on her own social life.

Pleasantries completed, and curiosity satisfied, Anthea turns the conversation to the tasks ahead of them.

\-----

As the week goes on, Anthea becomes convinced that there is something else going on. The bags under Mycroft’s eyes become almost non-existent, his attitude towards even the most stupid, recalcitrant junior minister suddenly improves from lethal to merely icy, and he is dressing in patterns and colours that she has never seen him wear before. If it were anyone else, she’d think they were in the first flushes of a new relationship. However, he had always made it quite clear that the safety of the nation was his top priority, and she’d never seen him look twice at someone, let alone pursue a dalliance or a relationship. Most of his spare time was spent fretting about Sherlock, or reading at home. Besides, she was aware of his security arrangements – he hadn’t brought anyone back to his flat, he hadn’t stayed overnight away from his flat, and she was sure she’d have noticed if he’d ducked out of the office for a quick shag. She was no Holmes, but she was head of Mycroft’s team for a reason.

There was no point in asking oblique questions and hoping that he’d slip up and tell all without realising. She’d learned that the hard way – he’d mischievously led her to believe all sorts of ridiculous things in her first few weeks. For now, she decides to bide her time. Eventually he’d leave a more useful clue, she was sure of it.

\-----

Mycroft and Greg have fallen into a routine of chatting every evening, even if it’s just a brief “how are you” or “hope your day went well”. He’d never admit it to anyone, but Mycroft has come to view these messages as high points in his day, and soaks up the attention like a sponge. He calls himself foolish for being so easily influenced, but in truth he knows he’s been starved of kindness and care for decades. His was a lonely childhood, and his sense of familial and political duty had weighed heavily on him from a very young age. He was taught to cultivate beneficial connections rather than form friendships, and he he is so very glad to have stumbled into something he could cope with using his limited charms. He knows his conversational style comes across as stilted or stand-offish, but his nameless friend doesn’t seem to mind. He says that Mycroft’s dry humour is hilarious, and is amazed at how much he knows. Mycroft basks. In return, he is sure to always compliment the photos his friend posts, ask sensible questions about the recipe or the method, and praise his skill.

He’s noticed that his friend never posts pictures of people or himself. He asked about it once, and is told that his friend had a bad experience with social media a while ago, and wants to make sure that he and his employees don’t end up in a bad situation through lack of consideration. While he’s glad to have his curiosity satisfied, it means that Mycroft has to imagine what his friend looks like. Asking would feel too intrusive, or sound like he was flirting, and he’s in no rush to make things awkward.

He decides to combine averages with what he already knows – average height for French men is 5’8”, so several inches shorter than himself; average build with broad shoulders and strong arms from working the pastry and ovens for years; medium brown hair and brown eyes going by genetic prevalence; likely the remnants of a tan given his visits to his remaining family in France. It helps keep Mycroft grounded in his conversations with him, if he can imagine a real person at the other end of the keyboard.

Greg has no need to ask what Mycroft looks like; he’s done a little bit of detective work. He holds a weekly meeting with all his staff to check in with them and lay out responsibilities for the week ahead. On the Monday after receiving the review, he closes the meeting by reading it out, congratulating them all on their hard work. After, he asks the waitress if she remembers who ordered the regional plate on Friday. She thinks for a little while, and then remembers the exhausted looking gentleman who came in by himself and sat quietly for hours. She says he was about as old as Greg, “a bit taller than you, actually”, slim, extremely well dressed and with dark auburn hair. Very polite, and almost old-fashioned in his way of speaking. Greg smiled; polite and old-fashioned were traits he recognised in _parapluie_roux_ , or ‘Roux’ as he thought of him to himself. He is smugly pleased with his snooping, but doesn’t tell his friend what he knows.

Greg likes that Roux takes the time to check in with him every day. It’s not something he’s used to, and it’s nice to know that someone in the world cares about how he’ s doing, and how he’s feeling.  He goes to bed with a smile more often than not, and checks his phone first thing in the morning in case Roux has sent something overnight. He’s noticed his friend works strange hours sometimes, and struggles with insomnia – once or twice he’s woken up for an early start at the bakery and finds Roux hasn’t yet been to bed. He worries for him, but doesn’t say anything other than  a reminder to sleep soon, and to caffeinate well in the meantime. He’s learning to see message notifications with hope, instead of dread.  He doesn’t feel needy – he can tell Roux is as invested as he is .

\-----

It’s approaching three weeks since Sherlock was checked into the clinic. Friday rolls around again without major incident, and Mycroft leaves the office mid-afternoon. He’s due to join his parents in a visit to Sherlock, and discuss the next steps. He doesn’t expect it to go well. The director has told him that Sherlock is refusing to participate in the therapy sessions, and without them he isn’t happy to let him leave. In the back of the car on the way to the clinic, he sends his friend a message.

 

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

 

I hope you’re having a good afternoon. I’m  
about to go into a meeting near the cafe, and  
I suspect I’ll need some cheering up afterwards.

Hey! I’m alright thanks, due to have a meeting  
myself with some suppliers soon though.

I recommend the mille-feuille today, freshly baked  
this morning – sorry to hear it’s going to be shit :(

At least I’m prepared for it, and have something  
to look forward to afterwards.

* * *

 

Feeling somewhat fortified, Mycroft settles back into the comfortable seat and looks out of the window, gathering himself for the probable fight ahead. His parents still aren’t speaking to him, and a detoxing Sherlock is bound to be combative.

As the car rounds the corner and slows in front of the clinic, he sends another message.

 

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

 

Once more unto the breach...

Good luck!!!

* * *

 

He greets his parents who are waiting in the foyer, and they are shown through to the visiting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No recipe link for the mille-feuille in this one, but it will come around in the next chapter!
> 
> I'm riding the confidence high of a steroid injection atm, and it's starting to do its job on my symptoms too. I'm going to try and get some more writing done tonight, and maybe I'll be able to post more regularly next week :)
> 
> Thank you again for all the kudos and comments you're leaving, it's brilliant to know that you're at least as invested in this as I am!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been playing around with the tags and have also removed the chapter count - no major dramas!

To say that the meeting ‘went badly’ was to miss a sterling opportunity to dust off the words ‘disaster’ and ‘catastrophe’. Although over the worst of the detox phase, at least in terms of the unpleasant physical symptoms, Sherlock’s need for the drugs was still extremely strong. He was thoroughly vicious to Mycroft, picking out every possible weak point as only a sibling can, and driving a spike precisely through the centre of each of them as only a Holmes is able to do. As revenge for the situation, he exposed all of his secrets, going back for years. Then, he moved onto their parents, berating them for their human weaknesses and punishing them for daring to care for him.

By the end, Sherlock was grey in the face and panting, and Mycroft, his mother and his father had each retreated behind the icy masks they’d developed after decades of being told that sentiment was not an advantage. Sherlock was taken back to his room by the orderlies, and his parents left in silence. Mycroft met with the clinic director, and agreed that Sherlock needed to stay until he was assessed as stable enough to leave, including participation in group and private therapy sessions. Money was no object; seeing him so furious at the only people in the world who cared whether he lived or died was heartbreaking, and absolutely needed to be addressed. Mycroft would far rather be hated by a living brother, than live with the guilt and regret of knowing he could have done more.

As spring was drawing closer, the evenings were staying lighter for longer. He leaves the clinic, heading for the nearest newsagent where he buys a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He stalks to the nearest park, finds a bench, and smokes cigarette after cigarette until he feels sick. He bins the rest of the packet with the lighter and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He briefly rests his face in his hands, and then brings out his phones. No alerts on the work phone other than Anthea wishing him a good weekend, and nothing on his personal phone. He brings up Instagram on autopilot, and sends his friend a message.

 

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

 

It was worse than I anticipated.

Oh shit :( do you want to talk about it? Or  
is it work?

I don’t want to disrupt your afternoon with  
my problems – have you finished your  
own meetings?

Yep, just prepping for the weekend.  
I can talk – if I stop replying for a bit it’s  
because I’m elbows deep in dough. Talk to me.

I’ve mentioned my family before, but not  
gone into details.

The day I came to the cafe, I’d just dropped  
my brother off at the rehab clinic. I’d spent  
the previous day by his bedside, willing him  
to survive an overdose. It was also the same  
day that our parents found out that he has a  
drug problem.

That can’t have been easy

Decidedly not.

We all went to visit him at the clinic this  
afternoon, to talk with him about what to  
do next. To put it politely, he tore us all  
to shreds.

He told my parents things about me that we’d  
always promised to keep secret. He exposed  
secrets about my parents that I doubted they  
knew about each other.

That sounds awful, I’m so so sorry

I wasn’t expecting him to be ‘fixed’, but I  
wasn’t expecting that level of onslaught.

And I don’t think that being outed to ones parents  
at my age should hurt as much as it does.

There’s no good way for that to happen  
and it was a total dick move for him to  
have done it, no matter the circumstances

Are you still planning on coming by the cafe?

I’m at the park at the moment, but yes -  
I’ll probably get there a bit before closing.

Alright. I don’t have the words to say this like a  
normal person, so bear with me.

Always. You’ve done the same for me,  
after all.

We’ve gotten pretty close in the past few weeks,  
even though we don’t even know each others names.

On one hand, I really want to ask you to meet up irl  
because I think you could do with the company.

On the other, I’ve got a few issues of my own and  
as much as I want to reach out to you, I’m not ready  
to meet you yet.

I don’t want to let you down and make an already crap  
day worse by doing something stupid

I -

Thank you. Just knowing that you want  
to help me is doing more than you know.

I’m not pressuring you into meeting with  
me, but please know that I consider you a  
close friend.

The same to you :)

Anyway. Come by the cafe when you’re ready, I’ve  
put aside something special for you. Just say you’ve  
come to collect a parcel under the name of Roux :)

Roux?

From your Instagram profile.

Oh, of course.  
I’ll be there in half an hour.

* * *

 

Mycroft walks from the park to the cafe in the gloom of twilight, the evening quickly growing cold. He requests a car to meet him at the cafe while he walks, so when he collects the parcel from a smiling waitress, he thanks her and quickly leaves.

He resists opening the box until he’s home, though he suspects it’s too heavy to just contain a mille-feuille.

He sits at the kitchen counter with a much-needed restorative cup of tea, and lifts the lid. While there is the expected pastry, there’s also a large round styrofoam container sealed with a plastic lid, and a handwritten note.

 

_Sorry again for your horrible day. I meant it when I said I wanted to comfort you. I can’t be there myself, so I’ve made up a care package._

_I’ve included some boeuf en daube, which I made myself – it’s not for general sale. It never seems to make sense to cook for one, so I make a whole pot and freeze it into portions. It should be mostly defrosted by the time you get it home, just tip it into a saucepan and heat it on a medium heat until piping hot. You know the drill._

_To prove I pay attention to everything you say to me, you should have some leftover sourdough beginning to get stale. Warm it through in the oven while the stew is reheating, and you’ll be good to go._

_Also, I wasn’t lying when I recommended the mille-feuille, I’ve been tweaking the recipe for years and this is the best one yet._

_Eat the food. Leave the washing up for the morning. If you have one, run a bath and take a cup of your awful mint tea with you._

_Send me a message when you get into bed, let me know how you’re doing._

  
Instead of a signature, there was a little doodle of the Eiffel Tower.

He passes his hand across his face and is shocked when it comes away wet – he hadn’t even realised he was crying. He’s not sure anyone has ever cared so much about him as a person, instead of as a tool, an asset, a target or a boss. Anthea might be the exception, but he’s kept her purposefully at arm’s length, keen to maintain professional boundaries.

He dries his face and finishes his tea before preparing his meal, stirring the stew over a medium heat and keeping an eye on the bread in the oven. He eats in the kitchen. Normally he would have red wine to accompany the meal, but is wary of drinking in his compromised emotional state, settling for sparkling water from the fridge instead. The beef is meltingly tender, and the carrots are sweet. He eats the mille-feuille with his hands, not even bothering to get a cake fork out of the drawer. He enjoys the cream squirting out of the layers, swiping up the spills with his fingers and licking them clean. It is delicious, as promised. The best he has ever had.

As instructed he leaves everything in the sink for the morning, and goes to have a shower. He sometimes regrets switching the bathtub for the walk-in shower when he first took the flat, but in reality he very rarely wants to have a soak. He brushes his teeth, and takes his still-warm mug of mint tea to bed with him.

 

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

 

Thank you for the care package, it was just  
what I needed. Not only the food, which was  
sublime, but also the thought you put into it.

I’m glad you liked it. The stew is an old  
family recipe, wheeled out whenever the  
going gets tough or the winter drags on too  
long. I’d been saving that pot for a rainy day,  
I’m glad it went to a good home.

I’m settled in bed with a mug of mint tea.  
I don’t have a bath but I did take a shower  
as per my orders.

Looking back to when I’ve had days like  
that, all I wanted was for someone else to  
do my thinking for me. Sorry if I came on a  
bit strong.

No, don’t apologise, you were right. I  
needed it.  
Onto happier matters. I’ve always wanted  
to know – how do you get the patterns on the  
fondant of the mille-feuille?

Trade secret ;) if I told you, I’d have to kill  
you

Well, that’s hardly fair! Are there many secrets  
in the trade? Turf wars, gang fights?

* * *

 

They chat for a little while, until the emotional exhaustion catches up with Mycroft. He falls asleep, still smiling at his mobile phone in his hand.

\-----

Across London, Greg realises what has happened and puts his phone to one side, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He’s pleased that he’s managed to comfort Roux enough to let him sleep. He’s thankful that his friend wasn’t offended when Greg said he didn’t want to meet. He breathed a small sigh of relief when his note was received in the manner he’d intended. The gamble had paid off.

He’s not sure about tomorrow though. He knows that Roux is very perceptive, but he doesn’t know if he’s going to allow Greg to keep his distance, or ask him why he didn’t want to meet. He suspects that Roux is also a private person – but he’s not sure if such a juicy lead would evade his notice forever.

He goes through his choices. He could stop talking to him, but the thought of going back to his isolated life is enough to cast that option aside. He genuinely looks forward to telling Roux about his day, and hearing about Roux’s life and whatever anecdotes he’s allowed to share from his super secret job. He is warmed by the friendship, and would do nearly anything to keep it. He hadn’t realised how lonely he was before.

He could explain to Roux a bit about his ‘issues’, as he termed them. The first is that Greg is...well...Greg. Greg Lestrade, sometime TV chef, best remembered for the smear campaign launched by his ex-wife’s PR team in an attempt to salvage her struggling image by destroying his. He’d worked hard to distance himself from that time in his life, and he saw every encounter with someone new as a risk. His appearance had changed since his face had last graced the nation’s TV, the years and the stress turning his hair significantly greyer, but he couldn’t rely on that to secure his anonymity. He was never famous enough to be stopped in the streets, but he was worried that if he let anyone get too close, the repeated exposure to his face would bring about a niggling remembrance which would eat at them until they put two and two together.

That was part of it – he was scared to go outside of his very limited comfort zone. That was one reason why he avoided meeting Roux. He trusted him, but he didn’t trust himself, in case he couldn’t cope with being put on the spot. He liked Roux too much to risk fucking it up and making him feel even worse.

The other part...he’s not willing to go into again for now, even with himself. He’s too tired.

For now, he’ll keep on as normal with Roux, and just hope that he lets sleeping dogs lie for a little while longer.

He turns onto his face, thumps his pillow into submission, and drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure we've all felt the same need to comfort a long-distance friend. We're just lucky that Greg has the balls to go for it, and Mycroft is needy enough to accept it.
> 
> An incredibly thorough mille-feuille recipe! <https://www.meilleurduchef.com/en/recipe/vanilla-millefeuille.html>  
> I'll let you in on a secret - I've made mille-feuille before, and it's a million times easier to use pre-made puff pastry. Cook them sandwiched between two metal baking trays to keep them perfectly flat and evenly crisp, then cut and fill to your heart's content.
> 
> Trade secrets on feathering will come in the next update!
> 
> Boeuf en daube is not a quick dish. Even longer than the boeuf bourguignon. Most recipes have you soak the beef in wine and flavourings before you start cooking it, and almost all of them suggest you leave it to cool and stand before reheating to get the full effect. [https://www.marmiton.org/recettes/recette_daube-provencale_11978.aspx ](https://www.marmiton.org/recettes/recette_daube-provencale_11978.aspx)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We talk a bit about Greg's backstory in this one, particularly the fallout of the divorce. We also learn something about his sexuality and an unfavourable opinion of it (but no physical violence). I don't want to spoil it by tagging it, but please be cautious if it's something you might react to.
> 
> Please contact me if you want any clarifications before proceeding.

As always, Greg wakes up just before the alarm he sets but never needs. He’s glad that the mornings are getting lighter now; he much prefers his morning runs when he can see his surroundings and the cold doesn’t make his lungs ache.

No more notifications from Roux, which is good – hopefully he slept the whole night through. He rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom. After washing and drying his hands he heads towards the kitchen, grabbing his dressing gown on the way past. He’s always felt more comfortable sleeping naked, but he’s not such an exhibitionist that he’ll walk through the whole house starkers.

He’s found out the hard way that eating a full breakfast before he runs is ill-advised, but going out hungry risks him passing out. A small glass of smoothie before he leaves, gives his stomach enough to work on without risking cramp. He finds it easier to make up the mix in bulk and freeze it in batches, so while he’s blending today’s portion he paws through the laundry in the machine, hoping that he remembered to wash a running shirt in the last load.

Clutching a clean (if wrinkled) shirt in one hand, he slowly drinks the smoothie to avoid brain freeze. Leaving the glass by the sink for later, he goes back to the bedroom to get ready. He brushes his teeth to get rid of the seeds and residual morning breath, then changes and heads out for his run.

He normally does a couple of laps of the local park, eating up the distance with an easy lope. He’s not looking to get race fit, just wants to be active enough to keep ahead of the middle-age spread. He’d much rather run than diet. Besides, he finds the rhythm soothing – it calms his mind when the thoughts won’t stop looping. He never really got on with meditation or yoga, but running keeps half his mind active and he can sort through the rest more easily. He’s even gone out for a run in the wee hours of the morning, preferring to exercise instead of brood when it all gets too much.

Greg is reminded of the thoughts he abandoned last night. He knows he’ll feel better if he addresses them now instead of leaving them to fester, and there’s no time like the present.

Roux isn’t just a new close friend, he’s Greg’s only friend, and Greg worries he’s getting too attached too quickly. Leaving aside the trauma of the media, the depth of betrayal he’d felt when Liz had told him she’d been seeing other people had stayed with him.

On paper, their marriage had been perfect. They’d met in their twenties through friends, had hit it off, and within a couple of years had married and moved in together. They were comfortable and happy. Then Liz had decided to apply for one of the TV talent shows, and though she hadn’t won, she’d become flavour of the month which meant that Greg had been dragged into it too. Honestly, he’d hated the posing and the photographs and the interviews, but Liz seemed to live for it, so he put up with it for her sake. Anything to enable her dream.

The only thing he’d enjoyed was making the cookery programmes. He’d grown up helping at the cafe, and his grandparents had taught him how to cook at home. His dad ran the cafe at the time, and Greg pitched in now and then to give him a few weeks off as holiday. Being able to make a living doing something he loved was much more fun than his real day job, and he threw himself into it. Wanted to make the best of it while it lasted.

When she told him she wanted a divorce because she’d found someone else, he was shocked. He stared at her in disbelief, mouth open, waiting for his brain to come up with something to say. Nothing came out. Liz never could bear a silence, and the whole story came tumbling out. He’d never satisfied her, but she “didn’t want to upset” Greg and so hadn’t said anything, even going through with the wedding for his sake. She went on and on about how she’d had flings throughout the years, “but nothing serious”, until she met Barry at the PR agency and she realised that she wanted out. Greg had gathered himself enough to close his mouth, but that was all.

Noticing that she wasn’t getting a response, Liz turned nasty. She called Greg a freak for not being as interested in sex as her other lovers, that he must be broken, that it was his fault she’d “had to cheat”, that she pitied him and that’s why she stayed. That he was a nice enough bloke, but that wasn’t enough for her any more. That she’d wasted the best years of her life on him, and that they were through. She wanted him out of the house by the end of the week, and she was going to stay with Barry until Greg left. Still Greg stared, his face draining of all colour. He hadn’t had any idea that Liz wasn’t happy, let alone that she had never been happy. How had he not noticed?

Perhaps sad, perhaps angry, perhaps just frustrated at not getting a reaction, Liz burst into tears and fled from the house. Greg was left alone in the silent house, until the film crew arrived.

Greg had gone through the motions mostly on autopilot, faking smiles for the camera and avoiding making too many mistakes. As soon as it was done, he’d sent them all home, dodging well-meaning enquiries into his well-being.

He called the agency, telling him to take him off their books, and that they’d do it without charging him a fee unless they wanted him to explain exactly why he was leaving to as many tabloids as he could round up at short notice.

Next, he’d called his cousins in France and asked if he could come visit for a few weeks. They happily agreed. He texted his father to briefly let him know where he was going and why, and to ignore anything he might see in the papers. He booked the flights to France. He emailed the lawyer a friend had used during their recent divorce to start setting things in motion. He called Liz to say he’d be out of the house in two days’ time. He’d texted a few friends to let them know he was going away for a while. Then he’d worked through the drinks cabinet until he passed out on the living room sofa.

The next day he battled through the hangover to box all of the belongings he wanted to keep, and have them delivered to a storage unit. He packed a large suitcase, and slept in his- their- bed for the last time. The taxi came for him at 7am the next morning, and he hadn’t looked back.

Waiting for the whole thing to blow over from France was for the best. It made divorce proceedings a bit harder, but not impossible. Eventually he just abandoned his phone and started with a new one with a new number – his social media accounts were full of badly-written threats and hate mail. None of his so-called friends had tried to call him to ask how he was doing. He probably should have felt more upset, but his heart was so numb that it barely registered.

He stayed with family for a little while, but didn’t want to be a bother. He decided to buy a cheap car and drive around France, visiting all the places he’d heard of but never seen. It was the most free he’d ever felt in his life.

After the divorce came through, he left it a couple of months before heading back to London. He stayed with his father, helping out around the cafe as always. In due course his father had retired, deciding to take a place by the sea to live out his twilight years while he could still enjoy them. Greg stayed and kept the café.

That had been his life for the past few years, and he was content. He business was doing well, he had a good team, and he liked making his customers smile.

But, he was lonely. He tried to keep busy, but it always crept in. Liz was right, he wasn’t as interested in sex as other men, as far as he could tell. He’d gone to get checked out once, in case there really was something wrong with him, but all the tests came back fine. It was just the way he was. He was learning to accept it. The problem was that he both craved and feared intimacy. He desperately missed being in a relationship with someone, caring for and loving someone, sharing a home and a bed with them, being the best team of two there could be. That bit had always held true, all the way through from when he was a teenager. He wasn’t fussy about gender, and never had been. But Liz’s betrayal, her comments about pity and his brokenness, meant that he didn’t want to inflict himself on someone, didn’t want to lead them on or gull them into a one-sided relationship. He couldn’t handle being left again for something he couldn’t change.

He turned a corner in the park, and came back to the present. Now that he’d revisited the topic, he could put it to one side again for another few weeks. As he ran back towards home, he wondered what he should do with the rest of his Saturday. As happened more often than not nowadays, his thoughts turned towards Roux. He smiled as he remembered the better parts of yesterday evening.

The endorphins from the run and the happier memories carried him through his post-run shower. As he was making an omelette for breakfast, inspiration struck and he grinned at the pan. He decided to kill two birds with one stone – try something new for the Cafe Anatole Instagram account, and make a little gift for Roux. He’d video the feathering process for the mille-feuille’s fondant icing. Plan made, he headed for the cafe, humming to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am somewhere on the asexual spectrum. I only really figured it out recently, and was ~4 years into my marriage before telling my spouse last year. He has been so brilliant than in hindsight I shouldn't have worried about coming out to him, but that's just it - you never know until you try, and by then you can't take it back.
> 
> The situation with Liz is my absolute worst nightmare and is such a dick move I can barely express the depth of my loathing for her. I hope age catches up with her good looks and she slowly fades into obscurity. Maybe she'll have to marry one of the ageing actors that she doesn't really care for in a desperate bid to cling onto fame and fortune, such as it is. Good riddance.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft sleeps a deep, healing sleep. He is nestled deep in his pillows, soft covers cocooning him up to his chin. He lies on his side but half-rolled towards his front, his body curved in a gentle crescent. If he dreams, he doesn’t remember it.

Eventually, the warm sunshine creeps through the cracks in the curtains and falls across his face. He wakes slowly, reluctant to rejoin the world. After a few false starts, he finally opens his eyes, and stretches his arms and back. He reaches his hand out to the nightstand.

 

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

hey, i hope you slept well :)

i’m off to the cafe for a while but let me  
know if you need me.

* * *

 

The message had been sent a few hours ago, and he smiles at the evidence that his friend still wants to speak to him, even after the mess of yesterday. Mycroft didn’t often lay abed so scandalously late, but he reasons that he deserves a lie-in.

He decides his plan for the rest of the day – exercise, eat, then maybe spend the afternoon at the Diogenes.

He brushes his teeth, washes his face and changes into his exercise gear before heading to the building’s gym. His phones go with him – one in case work needs him suddenly, and the other for music. He hates the tedium of running on a treadmill, but cannot bear the thought of running outside where anyone could see him. He doesn’t get much of a chance to listen to music at any other time, so it seems like a perfect solution. He changes the playlist periodically, and it’s become customary for him to ask Anthea for some more recent choices to mix into his old favourites.

The monotony of running lets some of the distress from the previous day creep back into his mind. To counter this, he switches to a playlist made wholly from Anthea’s latest suggestions, hoping that the unfamiliar music will hold his attention more closely, and provide the distraction he needs.

It works, and Mycroft runs for his full hour. He leaves the music playing when he switches to the free weights to maintain some semblance of upper body strength – while he’d gladly left behind the ‘legwork’ of his earlier career, he’d learned to never be unprepared. Part of this was keeping on top of his physical fitness; even a Holmes wasn’t truly prescient, and he would never live it down if he came off the worst in an altercation simply because he’d let himself go.

Routine completed, equipment wiped down, water guzzled, he heads back to his flat for a shower and lunch. As he lathers the soap and washes the sweat from his body, he finds himself humming. Unsurprising, given the repetitive nature of the lyrics and the simple melody.

 

_All of your love is sunlight,  
_ _All of your love is sunlight, sunlight, sunlight_

 

It gets worse as he’s whisking eggs for his omelette. He tries to get control over it, but it’s wormed its way into his head. By the time he’s slicing ham and grating cheese for the filling, he’s singing whole chunks under his breath.

 

_Oh the tale's the same_  
_Told before and told again_  
_Soul is born in cold and rain, oh  
_ _Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight_

 

He sighs. Perhaps he shouldn’t go on to the Diogenes as originally planned – he dreads to think what the other members would do if he were to spontaneously burst into song in the middle of the silent library. Though he had to admit the image appeals to his puckish sense of humour.

Once the omelette was cooked through, he neatly folds it and turns it onto the waiting plate. He takes that, his cutlery, another glass of water and a side-salad through to the dining table. As he eats, he scrolls idly through Instagram. He thinks that maybe he’ll cook some comfort food for his own freezer; he can’t rely on his friend spontaneously sending him nourishing soups and stews, and it would be nice to have his own stock of defrost-and-reheat emergency meals to hand.

Distracted, he almost skips a post by Cafe Anatole. Going back to it, he notices why – it’s not a photo of the latest offering as it usually is; at first glance it looks like an image of a workbench. A second look tells him it’s a video, and a definite deviation from the norm. Curious, Mycroft reads the description.

 

* * *

**cafeanatole** hi everyone! I hope you’re having a good Saturday. Thought we’d branch out a bit, and do a demo – swipe through the videos above to see how we make the pretty patterns on top of the mille-feuille :)

#cafeanatole #millefeuille #feathering #baking #cake #pastry #bakersofinstagram #tradesecrets #fondant

* * *

 

Mycroft makes sure the phone is off silent, and presses play. The camera is propped to give an oblique view along the workbench, and the audio picks up the sound of a radio playing nearby, with the clattering of other people in the kitchen in the background. A pre-prepared stack of pastry and cream is slid into view by a pair of tanned hands attached to strong forearms, which emerge from the casually-rolled cuffs of a blue shirt. The angle only shows the mid-section of the man, but reveals a powerful trunk with a trim waist – anything more is hidden by the apron. He doesn’t speak, but rapidly, deftly and proficiently pours white fondant onto the uppermost layer, spreads it evenly with a palette knife, flicks perfect stripes of chocolate horizontally, and drags the back of a knife through in opposing directions to form the ubiquitous pattern. Every now and then you can hear him singing along to the radio, but only in snippets. He cuts the large stack into four perfect mille-feuille slices with an incredibly sharp knife, and presents them as they would be seen in the cases in the front of the cafe.

Mycroft finishes his meal, deep in thought. He dabs the last traces from his lips with a napkin, then reaches for the phone and plays the videos again. And again. There’s something there that Mycroft knows he’s missing. He recognises the song, _Wish You Were Here_ by Pink Floyd; nothing unusual there. The man in the video he believes to be his friend, and not one of the staff – he’s a little peeved that a few of his assumptions about his appearance weren’t quite right, and a mite annoyed that he still hasn’t seen his face. He’s taller than he’d supposed, with a fitter-than-average build (which was a pleasant surprise), though he’d got the tan and the strength right at least-

Mycroft stops. The sense of deja-vu is undeniable. He racks his brain, until he thinks he has it. He watches the videos one more time, focussing closely on the hands in shot, and the mumbled lyrics coming through the speakers. This time, he’s sure he’s placed the memory.

In a bizarre twist of fate, his anonymous, wonderful friend is none other than the TV chef he’d been unaccountably and ridiculously attracted to, whose eyes still haunted (or graced) his nights.

Mycroft now understands why his friend— _Greg, Greg Lestrade, for heaven’s sake_ _—_ is so cautious about appearing on camera, or in person. If Mycroft had experienced the same hatred as Greg had, he’d be in hiding, too.

There was no chance of him going to the Diogenes now; he had to work out what to do with this knowledge. It would surely be unfair to not tell Greg that he knew who he was, but he also didn’t want to risk ruining the friendship that matters to him far more than he’s willing to admit.

Rather than rush, he decides to take his time to plot through the possible outcomes. He feels more comfortable in approaching it like a work problem than a personal one; goodness knows he’s had more experience in one than the other.

As he washes up the dishes from today as well as the night before, he calculates and recalculates. Upon reviewing previous discussions, he’s found that Greg is delightfully, frustratingly, difficult to predict. Combined with an expected strong emotional response to the news he bears, he can’t reliably anticipate the potential fallout. Given Greg’s straightforward nature, though, Mycroft suspects that coming clean at the earliest opportunity would be his best option.

He dries the dishes, then his hands, and puts everything away. He makes a cup of tea, then makes his way towards the sofa via the dining table to collect his phone. He makes himself comfortable, takes a mouthful of tea, and starts to compose his message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! But I also found a way to wrangle in the fic title, so...
> 
> Sunlight by Hozier: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PELeEo33JXs>  
> Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXdNnw99-Ic&t=2s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXdNnw99-Ic&t=2s)
> 
> Ham and cheese omelette: <https://www.bbc.com/food/recipes/cheeseomelette_80621>
> 
> The mille-feuille video (definitely worth a watch all the way through, I laughed so hard when the music kicked in around minute 4!): <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qSmTh8qCQyY>


	12. Chapter 12

Greg grins when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket – Roux must have seen his surprise.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux** _ _** >** _

I just saw your video. I had no idea how  
simple it was! I had images of the colours  
being piped on precisely, one by one.

They’re trade secrets for a reason ;) if everyone  
could do it, no-one would come to the cafe!

Fancy giving it a go yourself one day?

Heavens, no. I’m an adequate cook,  
but baking has never been my strong  
suit and I couldn’t hope to compare to  
your splendid creations.

ha. all it takes is practice!

so, did you sleep well?

Much better than I had expected. I put it  
down entirely to your good care and kindness.

Anytime. And I mean that, it’s not just me  
being polite

Is now a good time to talk? I don’t want to interrupt  
you if you’re in the middle of something, but  
I have something I need to discuss with you.

* * *

  
Greg, who had been smiling through their exchange, feels his heart stutter, and coldness runs down his spine. He’d hoped to have a bit more time before Roux started to ask about his sordid past and why he didn’t want to meet up. More fool him.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux** _ _** >** _

Truthfully I should finish what i’m doing  
here, should be done in another few hours.  
Is that ok?

Yes – it’s not urgent, I just wanted to let  
you know.

Sounds ominous...

Please, don’t worry yourself. It just might take  
some time, and I don’t want to pull you away from  
something you need to do.

Alright. I can’t promise not to fret, but I’ll  
let you know when I’m home.

* * *

  
Across London, Mycroft is gripping his phone tightly and loathing himself. He had wanted to spare Greg from the shock of springing the news on him, but now it looks like he’s upset him anyway. Further, he now has to keep himself on mission for an inexact number of hours. Maybe he should have lied, and pretended everything was fine...but it’s too late now.

He tries to read, but can’t keep his mind on track. He gives up after he finds himself staring at the same page for minutes at a time, not taking in any of the words, chewing at his lip. He thought he’d broken himself of all tells and habits years ago, but apparently not.

Leaving his book on the sofa, he paces the living room. Nothing to do in here. He moves past the dining table (nothing) through to the kitchen (nothing) and to the study (very little). Nevertheless, he sits behind his desk, willing himself to calm. He doesn’t want to leave the flat in case Greg was ready to talk while he was out, but he if he didn’t find something to do he was sure he’d go mad.

He decides to be productive and uses his nervous energy to tackle some of the tasks he’d set aside for after the weekend. Thankfully, he manages to lose himself in it, getting sucked into a particularly tricky problem that he’d been putting off until he was in the right frame of mind. When he resurfaces, he was a little surprised to see exactly how much time had gone by. Surely Greg would be contacting him soon.

He puts his work away, and heads back to the living room to pace a bit more, holding his phone in his hand so that he couldn’t possibly miss the alert. Despite this, he gives a little start when it does ping.

\-----

Greg had rushed home, both eager to get it over with and dreading whatever it was Roux had to say to him. For the rest of the afternoon he had worried about it. What did he want to discuss? Would he want to poke and pry into Greg’s past? A little later, he’d had another thought – what if Roux wanted to meet? Would he be offended if Greg still resisted? Would he still have a friend by the time the day was over?

When he gets in, he slings his coat over the back of the nearest chair, grabs a beer from the fridge, and slumps on the sofa. He can’t wait any longer.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

I’m home. Pretty sure the rest of the team  
was ready to kill me by the end of it

I’m sorry – it wasn’t my intention to  
cause you distress

Not really your fault – there was no way I  
was going to stop thinking about it after  
you mentioned it, and I couldn’t stop early  
otherwise i’d have left the others in deep cack.

So, what did you want to “discuss”?

I have a talent – almost a party trick,  
except it rarely makes people laugh. I am  
very good at noticing small details and  
pulling them together to see ‘the big picture’.

It took me a few views of the video, but  
I’m fairly certain that my observations  
and conclusion are correct.

There’s no easy way to say this...

Just tell me. I’m crawling out of my skin here

* * *

  
There was a pause, and Greg nervously watched the dots appear and disappear as a response was typed, considered and deleted.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

Are you Greg Lestrade?

* * *

  
He was glad he was sitting down. The blood drained from his face so quickly he could feel it. How did Roux know? Did everyone know? He was quickly becoming panicked – he hadn’t considered that this might be coming, and he had no idea what to do. He hadn’t planned for this. Heart pounding, he reacted on instinct – with the truth.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

...yes.

What are you planning to do now?

* * *

  
In a similar state of agitation on his own sofa, Mycroft was relieved to know that he hadn’t scared Greg off completely, and he was at least willing to respond. Now he has the arduous task of maintaining their friendship to the end of the conversation.  


* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

I know you value your privacy, and do everything  
you can to avoid being noticed or identified.

Please believe me when I say that I don’t plan  
to do anything with this knowledge.

I felt that I had to tell you, because to keep it  
to myself seemed hugely dishonest and very  
one-sided, especially given the anonymous  
nature of our friendship to date.

How did you even find out?

As I said, I have a particular talent for observation.

By pure coincidence, I had seen a few episodes  
of your cookery programme shortly before my  
brother was hospitalised.

A lot of the shots focussed on your hands and  
forearms, obviously. Seeing the mille-feuille  
video combined your unique physiology and  
mannerisms with the appropriate context, and  
I made the connection almost without realising.

I don’t think anyone else could identify you  
in the same manner; the chance of anyone else  
coming to the same conclusion is vanishingly  
small.

* * *

  
Greg lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, and feels his heart slow down from a dangerous whine to a steadier hum. To know that he hadn’t been stalked by one of Liz’s crazed fans and lulled into trusting them was a huge relief. Roux has also laid to rest his fear that said crazed fans hadn’t outed him to all and sundry online. It was mad to think that anyone would care so long after they were an item, but then he’d thought it was mad to care enough to hunt him down at the time. That lack of trust is what kept him in relative hiding. Speaking of which…  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

I’ll have to take your word for it. It’s still  
a bit of a shock, but thank you for telling  
me that you know. I have a bit of an issue  
with people not being honest with me,  
as you might imagine.

Understandably so. To be frank, I was  
terrified to both tell you and risk losing  
you as a consequence, or not to tell you  
that I knew and have you find out later, and  
have you stop talking to me anyway.

As collateral – now you know my name,  
will you tell me yours?

* * *

  
Greg sees the dots appear and disappear again.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.

That’s a bit unusual! I’ve been calling  
you Roux all this time – guess I’d better  
switch to Myc :)

I’d rather you didn’t. If you must give me  
a nickname I’d much rather go by ‘Roux’.

Message received, loud and clear.

* * *

  
There was a pause in the conversation. Greg took several swigs of his beer. Mycroft drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. Both waited for the other to take the next move.

Mycroft broke first.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

Well. I have to say, that went much better  
than I feared.

Are we still friends?

Yeah, I think so. I’d like to be.

Since I know a bit more than about you  
than you do about me, is there anything  
you’d like to ask?

Well, I’m pretty observant myself. Shall  
I tell you what I’ve picked up, and you  
can tell me how close I am?

Fire away.

First, your alias – combined with what  
you’ve told me about your travels, I’d  
guess you speak French. Therefore I’d  
say that the words ‘umbrella’ and ‘red’  
aren’t randomly chosen and mean  
something to you – maybe something  
about how you look.

Correct so far.

So, are you ginger?

A darker shade, but a redhead all the  
same.

What about the umbrella?

Not a hugely common choice for men in  
London. Most would wear a waterproof  
coat – less bulky to carry around on the  
Tube, less likely to get tutted at for taking  
up too much space on the pavement.  
So, why would you suffer with it? It’s  
a bit old fashioned, a bit like your way of  
speaking. I think your liking for umbrellas  
is part of your upbringing. And with a name  
like Mycroft, there’s no way in hell you  
went through to the local comp.

Correct again. Anything else?

So a posh bloke, well-travelled, well-spoken,  
with one foot in the past and a tendency  
to carry impractical objects around because  
he likes the look of them. This is not a man  
who’s slobbing about in jeans, jumpers and  
ratty trainers.

Remarkable!

It’s a talent, a bit of a party trick ;)

I’m just kidding. I have a small confession  
of my own to make. When you sent that first  
review I asked Helen if she could remember  
anyone who’d ordered that tasting plate  
lately, and she gave me your description

Scoundrel! I thought I might have a rival!  
However, despite your insider knowledge,  
the logic was sound – most impressive.

* * *

  
Both men on both sofas in both flats in London grin at the phones in their hands, glad to have successfully navigated what had threatened to be a major hurdle to each of them. They chat through the rest of the evening, Mycroft finally leaving the flat to buy supplies for his emergency freezer stew, and Greg idly flicking through the TV channels, trying to think of more ways to make Mycroft laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Formatting. I hope it wasn't too confusing!


	13. Chapter 13

Anthea can barely contain her curiosity. On top of her boss’s improved mood, flashier (for him) fashion choices, and seeming lack of willingness to verbally eviscerate the deserving over the past few weeks, in quieter moments he has started to stare into the middle distance and smile.

Sometimes, the smile is _smug_.

She is dying to know what has brought this about – she’s almost certain that there must be some sort of romantic relationship on the cards, regardless of the lack of evidence in his movements. On one hand she’s thrilled to see him so obviously happy, but on the other she knows that such a sudden change for such a staid man makes it more likely that any setback will hit the harder. She has no idea how Mycroft would react to heartbreak, and it makes her twitchy. She hates being unable to plan for every eventuality, and in this regard she has no points of reference.

She has spent the past two days mentally preparing herself for broaching the subject with him. She was so distracted by trying to plan an opening gambit, that she missed Mycroft’s question.

“I’m sorry sir, please could you repeat that?”

To her alarm, he appeared to be...blushing?

“I asked if you had any experience with online dating. I have a question that I’m hoping you might be able to answer for me.”

Well, that explained why she hadn’t seen evidence of a lover. She feels quite proud that she is trusted enough for him to ask such a question.

“I have some experience, sir – I’m sure that we can work it out between the two of us.” Or so she hoped.

“I am aware that my usual approach for vetting people is not conducive to building trust or intimacy...how should one transition from a virtual relationship to a real world date?”

“I will still need to run a security check, sir, but I agree – abducting your date and exposing their darkest secrets in an abandoned warehouse to prove your superiority is not the done thing.” She pauses. “Typically, anyway – unless they’re into that. I’m not one to judge.” Though, going by Mycroft’s faint look of horror, she should probably stick to the traditional approach.

“Speaking of security checks...may I know who it is you’re hoping to invite on a date? It shouldn’t take more than a few minute to do the preliminary review, and it might help with my suggestions.”

Although Mycroft had access to the same systems, protocol demanded that they couldn’t investigate their own acquaintances. “His name is Greg Lestrade, and he owns the Cafe Anatole.”

Anthea enters the details into the database and is pleasantly surprised by the photo attached to the returned dossier. He was handsome, and somewhat familiar. Mycroft correctly interprets the slight drawing together of her eyebrows.

“You might recognise him; a few years ago he had a cookery programme, but has since deliberately faded from public view.”

“The good news is, he’s not a security risk of any kind. In fact, he has an almost spotless record – a few speeding tickets when he had a motorbike in his early twenties, but nothing recently. No known pressure points, except for the fact he owns the business, which itself is in good financial health.”

Anyone who didn’t know Mycroft as well as she would have missed the subtle tells, but she can see that a small amount of the tension has dropped out of him. He must have a lot invested in this man already, which was both heart-warming and worrying. She decides to set him a test.

“For internet dating, the standard advice is to meet somewhere in public and to tell someone else where and when you’ve gone. Obviously the latter two are less of a concern for us, but the first one is still relevant. You know who he is, but he’s never met you – for all he knows, you might be a serial axe-murderer who’s enticing him to his doom. But, if he is concerned for his privacy, then the traditional dinner might not be a good idea. Too many people passing by, and if they’re interested enough in food to dine in the restaurants you prefer, there’s potentially an increased chance he would be recognised.”

Mycroft nods; obviously he’s run through a few scenarios himself.

“Typically the person who initiates the date offer would suggest the location, but given your circumstances, perhaps you should let him decide? He’ll choose somewhere that makes him feel comfortable, and feeling in control of the situation will make him more likely to agree to meet you.”

She watches his face carefully; it was a risk to suggest it, but it’s important to know how he’ll react. Will he be able to share power with someone else? She’s worried that he might be setting himself up for failure if he can’t put someone else’s needs before his own when it comes to a romantic relationship, and his answer will help her prepare.

Across the desk, Mycroft shifts in his seat a little. As expected, the idea of handing over the reins doesn’t sit well with him, but shortly he comes to a decision.

“Yes, that makes sense. He has previously expressed a nervousness about meeting, and I don’t want to him to feel that I am pressuring him into something he doesn’t want to do. He...means a lot to me, and has been uncommonly patient with my feelings over the past few weeks. The least I can do is return the favour.”

Smiling, she says “Well, sir, there’s no time like the present!”, and tries not to laugh as the blood drains from his face. Maybe it’ll turn out right after all; she only hopes that Greg is receptive. 

\-----

The thought of asking Greg on a date with an audience was too much. Mycroft forced himself to be attentive to his work for the rest of the day, replying to Anthea’s comments with only half-joking threats to send her to outer Siberia on secondment if she didn’t leave the subject be.

At home, he waits until their conversation is close to its conclusion for the day before he feels comfortable enough to broach the subject.

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

Do you ever get the whole of a Saturday  
or Sunday off?

Well, I *am* the boss – I set the rota, so I  
can do what I like. I just like to go and be  
useful, not mope around at home.

Why?

I’d very much like to meet you.

To take you on a date, if you’d permit it.

I understand if you don’t see me in the  
same light, but I would like to spend  
time with you in person one day.

* * *

Mycroft watches nervously as the dots appear and disappear. It feels like minutes, but is probably only a handful of seconds before a response appears.

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

What did you have in mind?

If it’s alright with you, I’d like you to  
choose. I remember you saying that you had  
some reservations about meeting in  
person, and I want to make sure that you’re  
comfortable. To try and show you that  
you can trust me, as much as I trust you.

* * *

There’s another pause, this time without any of the floating dots. The suspense is making his heart race, and he starts pacing in his living room to try and disperse the energy.

* * *

_**cafeanatole >** _

I’ve just switched myself off the rota  
for this weekend. Which suits you best,  
Saturday or Sunday?

Either day is fine with me.

Brilliant – let’s go for Saturday. When’s the  
last time you went to Kew Gardens?

Years ago. Should I come and collect you?

It’s ok, I’ll meet you at Victoria Gate at 10am

Perfect. I will book the tickets, and bring  
the coffee.

Thank you. For agreeing to see me.

;) you haven’t met me yet, you might regret  
it!

I warn you, I take sugar and milk in my coffee –  
I’m the worst part-Frenchman you have ever met

Even that shocking knowledge will not  
put me off, I assure you.

Good to know.

Well, i’m off to bed – I took someone’s morning  
shift for tomorrow and Friday to get the weekend  
covered.

Sleep well, and pleasant dreams.

* * *

It wasn’t until he was getting into bed that Mycroft realises that Greg hadn’t said whether or not he considers it to be a date. He decides to worry about it tomorrow; for now, he basks in the knowledge that in a few short days, he will be seeing his friend in person. However Greg views him, it will be worth it to make that personal connection, to see how his eyes will surely glow in the sunshine, and maybe get to hear him laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think that they're finally going to meet, it takes another chapter...! Mycroft absolutely will not be rushed. Send all complaints to the British Government please.


	14. Chapter 14

On Saturday morning, Greg gets up for his typical early run. He wants to settle his mind before he sees Mycroft, and keeping his routine is a key part of keeping his head. As he runs, he thinks.

They’d spoken a bit less on Thursday and Friday, a combination of Greg genuinely needing to put in extra hours at the cafe, and a shyness taking hold of both of them. He didn’t take it personally; he’d come over all bashful teenager himself. He only hopes that they don’t spend the whole day in awkward silence, but that’s one of many good things about Kew. It’s easy to walk in silent contemplation if the conversation dries up.

He’s looking forward to seeing Mycroft, of that there was no doubt – putting a face to the description and what he already knew of his friend was too great a temptation. And it’s not like he was struggling to find space in a dizzying social calendar; he knows that talking to someone in person has enough of its own benefits to rival the safety of internet anonymity. A man so protective of his own identity would never accidentally betray him, and Greg feels sure that he can trust him. Five years was a long time to be in ‘hiding’, and if he was ever going to feel comfortable with someone, Mycroft would be that person.

The only potential fly in the ointment was Mycroft’s mention of it being a date. Greg was conflicted. It’s always nice to be admired; gods knew it had been ages since anyone had told Greg that he was wanted. And he does genuinely like Mycroft, feels that their connection is a deep and lasting one. Feels a need to care for him, soothe his hurts, reach out and hold him when the world is too rough. And Mycroft has gone out of his way to make sure that Greg is as comfortable as possible about today, giving him all sorts of outs. But as always, Liz is whispering in the back of his mind. How long would Mycroft remain solicitous if his expectations aren’t met? Would he get bored? Would he be vicious, or become cold and distant? What makes him even entertain the idea that someone would want a relationship with someone who’s different ( _broken,_ _she hisses_ ), like him?

Borrowing problems from the future was helping nobody. Mentally shaking himself, Greg decides to enjoy the early sun on his face and runs back to his flat to get ready. For now, he would focus on today, making the most of spending time with Mycroft in the sure-to-be-beautiful surroundings.

The weather was shaping up to be bright and warm, but the breeze is decidedly chilly. A hasty breakfast, a thorough shower, some product scrubbed through his hair, and his favourite cologne applied, he turns towards his wardrobe. Looking at his choices, he settles on jeans, a slim-fitting grey jumper over a t-shirt for warmth, and his leather jacket to keep out the breeze and offer some protection in case it rains. He grabs his phone, sunglasses, wallet and keys before heading to the Tube.

* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

Hey, just leaving now – should be on  
track for 10am.

Don’t forget, milk and sugar in the  
coffee!

Of course – see you soon!

* * *

  
A date. With Greg Lestrade. He still can’t quite get his head around it.

He’d reported the good news to Anthea on Thursday. She seemed genuinely pleased for him, but ruined the effect by immediately asking him all sorts of questions that he didn’t know the answers to – what was he going to wear, had he planned for lunch, was he going to go for a handshake or a hug – and he felt quite overwhelmed. Perhaps it showed, because she looked a little contrite, and then set about helping him find suitable answers to them all.

Logistics resolved, he’d thrown himself into complex tasks to try and prevent overthinking, with moderate success. It also meant that he hadn’t spoken with Greg as often, but he was busy with his extra shifts so was less available anyway. Plus, he felt that their online conversation was temporarily overshadowed by the impending meeting in real life, and was a little bit unsure about what to say.

Mycroft isn’t going to run to calm his jitters; he’s paranoid about twisting his ankle or otherwise falling foul of some calamity that might cause him to be delayed. Despite avoiding his early morning workout, Mycroft still rose at his accustomed hour. He takes the time to make a proper breakfast, not wanting to combine low blood sugar with his nerves. He checks his phones to make sure there are no emergencies, and is relieved to find that all is well. Noticing the time, he heads for the bathroom. Greg’s message comes in as Mycroft is shaving, which neatly coincides with his mental timeline for the morning. He finishes passing the blade over his skin, washes off the remaining lather and moisturises. Looking in the mirror above the sink, he can see that he has totally recovered from the trauma of Sherlock’s hospitalisation, for which he is thankful. He’s already a little bit worried about the juxtaposition he will offer when standing next to the decidedly handsome Greg, so he’s glad that he’s not also looking worn and haggard today.

He dresses in casual clothes. It had been so long since he’d had need to, his existing limited wardrobe no longer fitted him. Anthea had volunteered to take care of it for him, and he is pleased with her choices – incredibly dark jeans, a comfortable button-up shirt whose collar showed above the round neck of a rich green jumper, and brown boots. He looks approachable, but feels put together and comforted by the layers. His driver alerts him that she is downstairs; Mycroft selects an overcoat, an umbrella in case it rains, makes sure he has the rest of his belongings and heads down to meet the car.

The driver had already collected the coffee, and indicates which has the milk and sugar in it for Greg. Mycroft intends to arrive a few minutes before Greg’s ETA to minimise the amount of time he’s left standing around, thereby reducing the chances that someone might recognise him, scuppering the date before it has a chance to begin.

Fortunately, the traffic is with him, and he arrives at their meeting point before Greg does. After only a few minutes, he sees him. Other than having more grey in his hair, he has barely changed at all from the version Mycroft saw all those weeks ago on TV. Still very much his type. He can only hope that Greg has a penchant for slightly awkward, over-tall gingers.

Greg smiles as he spots him, moving more purposefully towards him, eyes hidden by sunglasses.

\-----

Greg’s glad that they chose a more specific spot than just ‘Victoria Gate’ - turns out that lots of other people had also decided to make the most of the weather by visiting Kew. Looking for a tall red-head holding two coffees helps narrow the field even further.

Through a gap, he sees his target, and smiles when he spots an umbrella hooked over a forearm. Walking towards Mycroft, his smile broadens into a grin. He’s glad he’s agreed to meet him – he’s magnificent. Tall, wrapped in expensive, touchable fabrics, and patently a little bit relieved to see that Greg has actually shown up. It’s good to know that Mycroft is making an effort to be as open with him in real life as he is online – given what little he knows of his family and his job, Greg suspects that this is a deliberate effort on his part. He’d going to reward him, if he can.

As he approaches, he removes his sunglasses and hangs them on the neck of his jumper.

“Hey Mycroft – have you been waiting long?”

“Only a few minutes. Here, this one’s yours, still hot. And,” Mycroft smiles a little, “definitely with milk and sugar.”

Smiling in return, Greg accepts the coffee and takes a sip. The accent definitely cements Mycroft as ‘posh’ in his totally unscientific rankings, as does the quality of the coffee. Mycroft extends his right hand for a handshake, which Greg accepts.

“It’s so good to finally meet you, thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“I’m glad you took the initiative, I’d have dithered forever.”

  
Hands were released, and synchronised sips were taken from the coffees.

  
“Shall we? I’ve pre-booked the tickets, so it should be quick to get in.”

“Brilliant. I never think to plan ahead so I end up stuck in a monster of a queue.”

  
Together, they make their way towards the entrance, and make it quickly through to the other side.

  
“Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”

“It’s spring, so I imagine that most of the park will be in bloom. Shall we just head off in one direction and see how fancy takes us?”

  
Mycroft seems happy with this idea, so they head off towards the middle of the park. Walking side by side, they ease into a more fluid conversation, catching up over the past few days, and pointing out things of interest. Mycroft seems particularly enamoured by the huge amounts of blossom on the fruit trees. Greg says that he prefers the heavily scented flowers of late spring and summer, with lavender being a particular favourite. More than once, Greg startles a laugh out of Mycroft. It makes him unreasonably proud. Mycroft shows off his observational skills when he spots a particularly juicy specimen, and going by the smug smile when he makes Greg laugh in turn, the feeling is mutual.

Hours pass, and soon it’s lunchtime. Rather than fighting for elbow room by sitting inside a cafe, and given the warmth of the sun, they decide to get a portable lunch and find a sheltered place to sit. Chewing on his sandwich, watching Mycroft wrinkle his nose at the frankly awful tea they’ve been served, Greg can’t remember the last time he had so much fun in the company of another person. He decides then and there that Mycroft is worth taking a chance for. Even if a romantic relationship doesn’t work out, he’s sure he wants to keep seeing Mycroft’s smile, and to have the knowledge that he’s the one to put it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After researching Kew, I've seen they've got a really interesting exhibition of glass artwork - I think I'm going to visit in May! I've not been for a few years, and I think I went in late autumn, there wasn't much to see in terms of flowers.


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft fidgets with the wrappers from lunch, resisting the impulse to continue drinking the revolting substance the cafe had claimed was tea. A cardboard cup had not improved its flavour. They’d found an unoccupied bench out of the wind but still in full sunlight, and they’re sat at opposite ends, using the middle of the seat as a table. He’s pleased that the date is going so well – significantly better than anticipated – and is thoroughly enjoying himself. It’s such a relief to be able to spend time with a friend, though it was taking a bit of effort to prevent himself from falling into familiar behaviours of finding strategic weak points and currying political favours. He’s sure he’ll improve with practice.

And wasn’t that a lovely thought? To be able to relax, and pursue something that was _his_. Not a duty to his family, or to the Crown, or to his job. He was trying to fend off pangs of guilt and selfishness, though seeing the open grin on Greg’s face was doing a lot to assuage those feelings.

He could easily let that grin get him into all sorts of trouble.

He still couldn’t quite get over how attractive the man was up close. The tan was slightly faded from the winter months, but not totally gone, and it made his hair, eyes and smile glow. The sheer vitality of him shone out of every pore. If he was nervous or uncomfortable about being with Mycroft, or being recognised, he wasn’t showing it, and Mycroft was sure he’d be able to pick up some tells if he were.

He realises he’s been gazing at Greg for some time, and when he sees that Greg has noticed, he blushes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and averts his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” Mycroft looks back, and sees that Greg’s smile has turned mischievous. “I’m flattered, knowing you’d rather focus your attention on me than on all of that out there,” he says as he gestures at the manicured landscape before them.

Blushing more deeply, Mycroft changes the subject. “Is there anything else you’d like to see? I don’t want to monopolise your whole day.”

“Nope, no other plans, though it’ll probably get colder later in the afternoon. Shall we walk another loop, then decide how we feel?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Mycroft replies, and busies himself by collecting together the remnants of their meal, dumping it in a nearby bin. He tries not to get caught while watching Greg stretch as he stands.

They orient themselves according to the map and head off, falling into step.

As they walk, Greg pondered. Everything about the man’s appearance screamed superiority, aloof luxury and untouchability, but he was sweet – slightly old-fashioned in his approach, but charming and courteous with it. He was perversely tempted to ruffle the image. He hadn’t made a conscious decision to flirt with Mycroft, but it turns out that his lizard brain couldn’t resist the adorable sight of his blush when Mycroft realised he’d been caught staring. He can’t bring himself to care, despite the dangers in moving too fast before explaining about his...circumstances. On the other hand, he definitely doesn’t want to start having awkward conversations before he’s more comfortable about how the topic will be received. Given the obvious change of topic, maybe Mycroft wasn’t ready for it either. If his mouth keeps running away with him, he could find himself up shit creek without a paddle, and he’s never at his best when flustered. Brutal honesty would probably not work in his favour on this.

He looked over, and saw that Mycroft appeared to be similarly deep in thought. Or maybe he was just admiring the way the sun casts shadows between the trees.

Mycroft, the multitasker, was doing a bit of both. Letting his eyes scan far ahead so as to avoid picnicking families, and keeping half an eye on Greg, he tries to sort through the mess his mind has suddenly become.

He’s all too aware that Greg hasn’t actually said that he sees this as a date, or that he views (or could eventually consider) Mycroft as a potential romantic partner. He doesn’t even know Greg’s orientation for definite, though the way he’d reacted earlier would suggest that he was at least open to the idea of dating men. Unless he was just being nice, accommodating Mycroft’s obvious lack of recent dating experience to make him feel better about being caught staring like a besotted teenager. It could only have been more obvious if he were drooling.

This lack of certainty, the high level of personal investment, the memories of the times it has gone wrong before – he now remembers why his last few liaisons had been deliberately brief, and with no view to extending their longevity. This was the first time in decades that he’d found friendship first before wanting to pursue it further. The combination of novelty and nostalgia just served to stretch his already jittery nerves.

To try and shake some of the nervous energy, he kicks out at a conker husk forgotten from the autumn. It happens to cross Greg’s path, who automatically kicks it back. Suddenly they’re both focussed on the impromptu game, smiling wide and bumping into each other as they try to keep the volley going. They only stop and realise how ridiculous they must look when they veer into the path of an elderly couple coming the other way. The woman smiles while shaking her head, and the man tries to smother a laugh; Mycroft and Greg attempt to regain some semblance of dignity as they let them pass, straitening jackets and jumpers. Their eyes meet, and they dissolve into giggles.

“Well, that wasn’t embarrassing at all...”

“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit.”

Greg turns to face the direction they were heading, and offers Mycroft his elbow with a tilt of his head. Surprised, Mycroft hesitates, but then hooks his free arm through Greg’s, shifting the umbrella out of the way. When they reach the river, they stand and watch the wildlife paddle or float past. Mycroft had been afraid to break the companionable silence, but Greg launches into a story about being chased by hungry geese as a child, prompting Mycroft to reminisce about the time he’d had to pull Sherlock and his puppy out of the church pond.

These and similar stories carry them back on the return trip to Victoria Gate, still arm in arm. The afternoon was becoming decidedly chilly with the encroaching clouds and stiffening breeze, as predicted.

They come to a halt on the edge of the crowds milling about the exit. Greg turns to Mycroft, unlinking their arms but sliding his hand down Mycroft’s forearm to grip his hand.

“Thank you for a lovely day, Mycroft. I really enjoyed our date, and getting to know you a bit better.”

“It’s entirely my pleasure. Would you like a lift back?”

“Thanks, but no – I’ve got a few things to do before going home so I may as well get the Tube.” Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hand gently, and looks directly into his eyes. “I’d like to do this again some time. Another date, I mean. Not necessarily Kew, though it was great, but--”

Mycroft squeezes back. It’s enough to cut through the rambling, endearing though it is. Smiling, he says, “Of course. Shall we chat later?”

“Sure. As I said, I’ve got no real plans so I’m going to be around.”

Greg still hasn’t let go, Mycroft hasn’t relaxed his grip, and they both stand there somewhat sheepishly for a few moments. A cold gust of wind makes Greg shiver, breaking the spell. He reluctantly lets their hands drop.

“Alright. I’ll let you get on, and I’ll message you this evening.”

“Goodbye, Greg.”

Greg walks backwards a few steps, waves, and then turns. He replaces his sunglasses, shoves his hands into his pockets, tucks his head further down on his shoulders to avoid the cold, and merges into the crowd. Mycroft watches him go before sending for a car.

He’s desperate for a proper cup of tea, and a debrief of this magnitude is surely worthy of a chocolate Hobnob or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at them, successfully navigating social interactions like well-adjusted adults!
> 
> Here's the Kew map if you're interested: <https://www.kew.org/kew-gardens/visit-kew-gardens/map>


	16. Chapter 16

Greg gets off the Tube a few stops before the closest one to his house. He’s spent most of the ride considering what he wants to cook tonight, deliberately avoiding dissecting the events of the date.

Wandering through the aisles of the shop, he decides to do a risotto. He has the basics at home, so picks up a whole chicken, fresh herbs and veg, extra parmesan and risotto rice.

It’s too early to eat when he gets in, so he turns the radio up loud and starts to clean. As he spritzes, scrubs, sweeps and vacuums, he sings along to snippets of the songs he recognises. He even dusts the skirting boards.

He manages to stop himself before he can act on the urge to remove all his books to dust them and the shelves they sit on, and decides it’s time to start cooking.

He preheats the oven while he spatchcocks the chicken, rubs the skin with oil, garlic, salt and pepper and puts it in the oven to roast. Still singing, he starts the risotto. He sets some stock to simmer in a saucepan, ready for the later stages. He finely chops the onion, and softens it in a mixture of butter and olive oil over a medium heat. While he’s waiting for the onion to become translucent, he crushes and minces a couple of cloves of garlic, strips leaves from the thyme sprigs and finely chops it with the tarragon and a small amount of dill. When the onion is ready, he adds the garlic and stirs it into the fat until it becomes fragrant. He measures a few handfuls of risotto rice into the pan, and stirs that for a few minutes until all the grains are coated and have also started to go translucent around the finer edges. He turns the heat up a little, pours in a glass’s worth of white wine from the open bottle in the fridge, and stirs it until the wine has all been absorbed. Next, he adds a ladle of the hot chicken stock, stirring it in until mostly absorbed, checked by drawing the wooden spoon across the bottom of the pan and seeing how quickly the mixture fills the void. He adds another ladle, and finely grates the parmesan, occasionally stirring. Another ladle, stirs, and gets a fresh saucepan of water boiling for vegetables. Another ladle, stirs, checks the chicken. Turns the heat under the risotto down to a lower temperature, stirs, trims the green beans and sprouting broccoli. Stirs. Another ladle, stirs, tests the rice for bite, puts the vegetables in to cook. Stirs, stirs, stirs. Checks the rice again, adds the last ladleful of stock, stirs, checks the chicken and removes it from the oven, putting it on the workbench behind him to rest for a few minutes. Stirs, checks the amount of liquid left in the rice, and turns the heat off. He tips the grated parmesan and finely chopped herbs into the risotto and stirs until thoroughly combined, absorbing the last of the liquid and thickening the mixture. He checks the vegetables. He puts a small knob of butter onto the risotto to melt, drains the vegetables, and puts them onto a plate he takes from a cupboard. He carves a portion of chicken for himself, adds it to the plate, and then turns back to the risotto. He stirs the butter in to give it a final glaze and richness, tastes to check the seasoning, adds a few grinds of pepper and a tiny bit of salt, decides to add a rasp of lemon zest at the last moment, and finishes plating up. He pours himself a glass of the same wine that went into the risotto, and moves everything over to the other side of the workbench, where there are high stools that convert the opposite overhang into his dining area. Angling himself so he can see the encroaching twilight through the window, he tucks in to the accompaniment of 6Music’s Funk and Soul Show.

Now that he’s stopped moving, there’s no way to avoid it.

Mycroft Holmes is thoroughly under his skin. And he desperately needs to work out how to keep him there without causing them both significant pain further down the road. The problem is, he’s got no idea how to go about it.

Meal finished, he slowly sips the rest of his wine as he gazes out of the window, resting his chin in one hand with the elbow propped on the bench. Today really had been everything he’d hoped for, and more. He was glad he’d taken the risk of offering his arm to Mycroft; he’d had a brief moment of panic when Mycroft hesitated before accepting, worried that it was either too old fashioned or too soon, but he felt that walking along hand-in-hand wouldn’t have suited the dignity of the man somehow. It was undeniably good to have the warmth of another person pressed against his side, accepting what he offered, and gently steering each other as they walked. Such a simple thing that he couldn’t have told you with words that he’d missed, but was so obvious now that he’d experienced it again. He could hardly bear to let his hand go when he’d said goodbye, either.

He searches his feelings, just in case, but though he was definitely experiencing attraction, the strongest he’d had in ages, it still wasn’t sexual. He hadn’t really expected anything else, but it would have made things easier.

He finishes the wine, and stands. He strips the meat from the carcass, and stores the meat in the fridge. He then makes a start on the washing up. As he swishes the hot water and the washing up liquid together in the sink, he comes to the realisation that he can’t possibly be the only person in the world going through this. Calling himself fifty kinds of idiot while he hurriedly finishes doing the dishes, he barely waits to dry his hands before grabbing his phone and making a start on research.

\-----

Fortunately Mycroft’s drivers were used to his total silences, and they never try to make conversation if he hasn’t initiated it. This time, he’s not scheming his way through a tricky political crisis, or gauging how much help he can con Sherlock into accepting before he shies away like a skittish colt; he’s still reeling from what just happened. He was surprised but charmed when Greg offered his arm; the anachronistic courtesy appealed to him, and the opportunity of discreetly getting his hands on those tastefully muscled arms under that leather jacket was not one to be missed. Though he had soaked in the scenery and participated in conversation, the back of his brain was quietly admiring the strength and solidity of the man, both physical and emotional. While Mycroft wasn’t exactly closeted (barring his parents, who still held out hope for grandchildren), he had always been cautious about displaying his affection in public. As a younger man it was risking catcalls or threats of violence in some neighbourhoods, and as his career progressed it would have put his lover in danger. At this stage, his reputation was such that any move made against a partner would be tantamount to suicide for both the perpetrator and their sponsor, but he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to search for something more permanent with whom he might conceivably walk in public. Greg didn’t seem to have any such conflicts, which Mycroft finds somewhat refreshing, if only adding to his infuriating lack of predictability.

The thing that had really tied him up in knots was when Greg had held and squeezed his hand just before he said goodbye. His skin was still thrumming with it, and he finds himself repeatedly rubbing his thumb across the fingers of the hand in question. He quickly presses his hand flat on his knee to still the motion.

Stillness moves to a rolling fingertip tap as the car weaves through traffic. He’s a bit alarmed at the strength of his response to so simple a touch.

He lets himself into his flat on autopilot, still deep in thought. He deposits umbrella, keys, wallet and coat in their respective dwelling places, and immediately heads to the kitchen. He fetches down a tea pot, and boils a small amount of water in the kettle to scald it. He lets the pot warm while he boils a full complement of fresh water, and searches through his cupboards for some loose-leaf Assam and the emergency chocolate biscuits. He puts a few scoops of tea into the fine mesh basket, swirls the hot water around the pot and tips it down the sink. Placing the tea basket into the pot, he waits for the kettle to click off and pours boiling water over the leaves. As it starts to steep he searches out a small milk jug which he fills from the bottle in the fridge, arranges a few of the biscuits on a plate, and repeats the same warming procedure with his favourite tea cup. Satisfied, he puts everything together onto a tray and takes it to the living room, this time heading for a small coffee table between two armchairs that are angled towards each other, but face a window. Sliding the tray onto the table, he sinks into the far chair with a sigh, and watches the fluffy white clouds scud across the sky, blown by the freezing wind as the tea continues to steep.

When the optimal time has passed, he pours some milk into the bottom of the cup, and pours the strong black tea on top. He watches the liquids bloom and swirl in hypnotising patterns for a while before stirring, and taking a sip he closes his eyes. He doesn’t always bother with the whole performance, but his nerves could do with soothing. After another mouthful of tea, he selects a biscuit and takes a small bite, savouring the sweet after the bitter.

In the time it takes to refill his cup twice, and polish off the plate of biscuits, he’s come to some conclusions. He’s in far deeper with Greg than he’d realised, Greg appears to be interested in return, and he’s now caught between making sure he stays around for the foreseeable, and not scaring him off by being overeager. He is sorely out of practice, but he believes that if he applies his not insubstantial skills to this task, he should be able to find a way to achieve his intended goal.

Decision made, he is an odd mixture of bubbling hope and fizzing adrenaline. Feeling energised but with nothing to direct it towards, he decides to take advantage of it by going on the morning’s postponed run, and sets off to get ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recipes are embedded in the text this time, mostly because the risotto I know by heart, and tea is...well...tea. Assam is my preferred indulgence tea, though I'm a heathen and would put in a bit of sugar, too.
> 
> And honestly? No-one ever cleans the skirting boards unless they're avoiding doing something else.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic has been uprated from MATURE to EXPLICIT.
> 
> I hadn't really planned it but it seems to have happened anyway. It is relatively brief, and I couldn't find a way of writing it so that it definitely falls under M instead of E, so I thought I'd err on the side of caution and change the rating. It's confined to the last paragraph or so and you won't miss much if you want to skip it.

Greg yawns, and runs both hands across his face, scrubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes. He’s feeling a jumble of emotions. Tired, because he fell down the research wormhole and it’s fast approaching midnight, way after his normal bedtime. The light from the screen is making his eyes ache, and his neck is definitely not meant to be cricked at this angle for so many hours. Relieved, because now he has a name for what he is, and knows he’s not alone. Angry, mostly with himself for not bothering to do research sooner, living with unnecessary heartache by not looking for this stuff and just assuming there was something wrong with him. Sad, that people like him are so poorly understood and have to put up with bullshit from both sides of the LGBT+ fence, though truthfully he wasn't surprised. People are people everywhere. Disappointed that, despite having found the answers he was looking for, there was no quick fix to his situation with Mycroft.

Previously, he’d always thought of himself as bisexual, feeling drawn towards people regardless of gender, and it’s slightly odd to find himself with a new identity at this time of life, even though it fits him better. If he understands what he’s found, he’s actually somewhere on the asexuality spectrum, and biromantic. Truthfully, it’s learning about the different types of attraction that has really taken his attention. He suspects that he’ll be spending every spare moment for the next few weeks picking through his life, working out why he felt left out or confused. Reliving scenarios and applying his new knowledge. As if he didn’t spend too much bloody time in his head already.

Still, at least it had cleared up a few things for him. Why he still felt the urge to touch Mycroft, be close with him and be in a romantic relationship, but without the need to shag him senseless. And having such good online resources would surely help in any conversations he has with Mycroft.

Closing his laptop and setting it aside to charge, he hauls himself upright off the sofa and shuffles to the kitchen. He turns the radio off and gets himself a glass of water from the tap. He stands by the sink as he gulps it down, then refills it and takes it to the bedroom, turning off lights as he goes. He brushes his teeth, slings the day’s clothes in the hamper, and climbs into bed. Settling on his back, one arm behind his head to support his neck, he sends Mycroft a message.

* * *

**parapluie_roux >**

Hey, how was the rest of your day?

No unexpected dramas. And you?

Just caught up on some errands, got some much  
needed cleaning done.

It’s definitely safe to say that the date was my  
highlight…

I should hope so! Though there is a certain  
appeal in a clean house.

My place is pretty minimalist so it’s easy to see  
when I’ve left it too long. Next time I’ll get an  
old cottage where the cobwebs are listed and add  
to the charm.

I...have a cleaning service.

In my defence, my hours are often extremely  
erratic and I found that I sometimes didn’t clean  
for weeks or months at a time when left to my own  
devices. I couldn’t stand it.

Hey, i’m not judging – whatever works, right?

My first job was cleaning. Well, I say ‘job’ - I  
used to help out at the bakery by sweeping  
and cleaning the surfaces for a bit of pocket  
money before I was allowed to work the dough  
or the ovens.

I used to help the other boys in the dormitory with  
their homework in exchange for sweets and favours.  
I suppose my current profession isn’t too far  
removed, when you get down to brass tacks.

* * *

Greg carries on the conversation in a similar vein until Mycroft once again drifts off mid-reply. He had wanted to prove to Mycroft that the date hadn’t scared Greg off, and talking him to sleep seemed to be the best way. No matter what, Greg was always going to be available for him. Neither of them could cope with being alone again. Now he just needs to find the perfect balance between biding his time until he was sure he was ready, and risking stringing Mycroft along.

\-----

Sunday passes lazily. They may both have been lonely, but Mycroft at least felt the need to recharge his introvert batteries before the coming week. Despite this, he keeps finding himself grinning about something Greg had said yesterday, or flexing the fingers on his hand to recall the feeling of Greg’s warm hand in his. In the end, he decides to get all his daydreaming out of the way before Anthea can catch him staring into the middle distance, and lies on the sofa to replay his favourite bits of the date, filing them carefully in his cavernous memory.

As evening comes around, he and Greg end up watching a film showing on TV in their respective homes, exchanging jokes and trying to guess the next lines by text. Greg had seen the film before but Mycroft hadn’t, though the score was pretty even.

After Greg had gone to bed, Mycroft settled himself under the duvet. He was still amazed that this domesticity, even if it was somewhat long-distance, was something that he wanted. Craved. Would do almost anything to keep. It was decidedly strange to be doing things this way around, with friendship and emotional intimacy as the foundation instead of the desire to satisfy the physical need. As a young man he’d been subject to the same torrent of hormones as everyone else, harbouring all sorts of crushes. At first he couldn’t pursue them due to his crippling shyness and terrible lack of self-confidence, and later he wouldn’t risk jeopardising his career. His more recent encounters had been brief opportunities snatched while travelling, when the need was too great and the risk acceptably low. He’s looking forward to hopefully, maybe, one day, having Greg in his bed. Learning all of his sensitive spots, feeling his warmth on cold winter evenings, frittering away lazy mornings after the nights before in languid peace. The thought of waking up to see Greg rumpled by sleep and lit with golden sunlight on the pillow next to him, was enough to send his thoughts down an entirely more lascivious route.

He struggles a little with incipient guilt about fantasising about Greg now that he actually knows him, but it's only brief. Rummaging around in the bedside table until the lube and tissues resurface, he then strips himself of his pyjamas. Getting comfortable on his back, he bends his left leg, planting his foot around the level of the right knee. He smears the lube onto his cock, sucking in a sharp breath as the cool gel meets warm, sensitive flesh. He slowly pumps his hand up and down, relishing the contrast in temperature for as long as possible. He settles into a rhythm as he imagines how Greg's mischievous smile might look in soft evening light, the delicate smile lines around his eyes drawing attention to the chocolate depths full of promise. How his lips might feel against his neck, the slight stubble catching to send shivers down his spine. The warmth and strength of Greg's hands on him, the tan bright against the paleness of his own skin. He tightens his grip and moves faster until he comes, letting the ejaculate land on his stomach and chest. He just lies there and breathes before he cleans up the worst of it with the tissues. He heads to the bathroom to do a better job of it before dumping everything back in the drawer, redressing, and falling back into bed. He basks in the wash of hormones until he drifts into sleep, ready to face Anthea's inquisition on Monday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, such as it is, may or may not appear again in later chapters depending on which way they decide to go. Let me know if you'd like me to keep signposting it in the pre-chapter notes or if you don't think it's necessary.
> 
> It's taken me ages to get the next chapter up - sorry about that! I've got a clearer idea of where I think it'll be heading next so hopefully we'll be back to approximately weekly updates.
> 
> Regarding asexuality - there are so many good online resources. I would definitely recommend giving it a google and reading through a few articles. AVEN is a useful hub for asexuality and aromanticism, though I've not tried the forums. After I had the initial conversation with my husband, I sent him a few links for him to read in his own time, and he said that it definitely helped to be able to do his own reading, with the understanding that he could always ask me about my/our particular circumstances.
> 
> The different types of attraction were revelatory. I think that allosexual people (who experience sexual attraction) could also benefit from looking into it. From what I can tell, and from my own experiences, people on the asexual spectrum tend to assume the types of attraction they feel are the same as the sexual attraction that others feel, and that's one of the reasons why so many of us don't realise that something's not quite right for so long. There's all sorts of debates on how feminism and societal standards feed into this, but I'll leave that to you to read up on if you're interested.


	18. Chapter 18

“Good morning sir,” Anthea greets Mycroft as he approaches her desk on the way to his office. “How was your weekend?”

“Rather pleasant thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft is grateful for Anthea’s earlier help, but keen to try and regain some of the professionalism he had felt slipping away from him in previous weeks due to his distraction. As he had eaten breakfast this morning, he’d decided that he would remain as poised and ice-cool as before he’d been beguiled by Greg.

As per nearly every morning, Anthea stands and follows him into his office, bringing the paperwork. He notices that there’s a sealed manilla envelope in today’s stack, but settles himself in his chair before reaching for it, raising an eyebrow at Anthea as he does so.

“It came through the internal post, sir.” Though she might screen external correspondence, internal documents were not to be opened by anyone other than the intended recipient, no matter how enticing they might be.

Carefully breaking the seal, Mycroft tips the contents out onto his desk. It’s two stapled stacks of paper, and an electronic key card. Shaking the envelope a bit more vigorously dislodges a smaller slip of paper.

 

_Congratulations – please ensure both copies are signed by both parties before the key card is exchanged. One copy is to be returned and one is to be retained._

 

Mycroft recognises the squiggle under the message as belonging to his superior.

“He must have passed the background checks with flying colours,” says Anthea. She watches Mycroft’s face carefully, as he seems frozen. “How much does he know about what you do?”

“Enough to know that when I am vague about my job, it is because it is confidential and not a signal that I don’t trust him, or am dishonest by design.”

Mycroft doesn’t appear to be seeing the paperwork as good news, which puzzles Anthea – surely knowing that Greg isn’t a plant or a threat should be a positive. To be granted his own access to a secure property such as Mycroft’s apartment without needing an interview was bordering on the unprecedented. She misses the chance to ask him, however, as he quickly returns the documents to their envelope and puts them away in his desk before directing conversation towards the week’s tasks.

After Anthea left to start tackling her workload, Mycroft lets himself assess. Yes, it’s fantastic news that Greg has passed the security checks; however, he had anticipated that the assessment would have required an interview or some other opportunity to have another party explain the need for such a frankly invasive review of Greg’s private life. Now the full weight of it falls to him, and he’s not sure what to do next. On the one hand, Greg is confirmed to not be a threat to himself or to national security; on the other, Mycroft still can’t go into detail about how he knows this about Greg, or why he needs to know this about Greg, until he’s convinced Greg to read and sign the Official Secrets Act.

Setting aside the conundrum for now, he gets on with his tasks.

\-----

Mycroft’s first meeting of the week is with one of his more competent colleagues, and should have been a brief status update between their two departments to ensure that no toes were accidentally crushed underfoot. However, as he and Anthea flick through the briefing notes provided for his review, he couldn’t help but notice there was something amiss. He flags it to Anthea.

“Hugo, it appears that there are a couple of errors on the agenda,” Anthea says.

“Oh? What is it?” Hugo asks, turning to his own copy of the paperwork. Perhaps his lack of eye contact should have been an early clue.

“You do not have Mr Holmes’s name down as one of the attendees for the Brussels security meeting, and the meeting is dated tomorrow. I assume that both of these are merely typos?”

Hugo’s smile froze, looking more like a grimace. After a pause, Mycroft steps in.

“Hugo. Is the security meeting booked for tomorrow, yes or no?” Mycroft’s tone isn’t glacial, but there is definitely the scent of snow on the air.

Hugo’s eyes move rapidly around the room, as if looking for an escape. Unfortunately for him, the window is bolted shut and the only door is behind Anthea, who is clearly beginning to plot a myriad of ways in which to make his life thoroughly miserable. He admits defeat, and says, “Yes.”

“Good. Now, why was I not informed that this meeting was taking place?” Again, Mycroft’s tone is level, but the storm clouds were definitely gathering, and approaching with some speed. Anthea’s hands are flying over the keyboard, presumably shuffling his diary and booking transport.

“Well, you see, the last meeting went so smoothly, and you are so busy, and we spoke a little while ago about increasing the levels of my responsibilities, and I thought that perhaps, maybe, I could--”

Mycroft cuts into Hugo’s increasingly rapid rambling, now laced with Arctic chill. “Enough. We will talk more about precisely what is and is not within your remit afterwards. For now, you will brief me, thoroughly, for the meeting tomorrow. Go.”

The rest of the morning turns into a complicated mixture of preparations for Brussels, and holding meetings brought forwards from their Tuesday slot, or soothing the feathers of people who were less important and were thus being pushed back to later in the week. Through it all, Mycroft was determined not to lose sight of the conundrum of Greg.

\-----

Greg, normally of a cheery disposition, doesn’t draw any unusual attention when he gets to work, despite being cheerier than usual. On top of his date, his morning run had gone well, he’d managed to catch his toast just before it had burned, and he’d caught a snippet of his current favourite song blaring from a taxi which passed him on his walk to work. He was still whistling it as he entered the bakery, causing the few people already there to turn and see who it was.

“Mornin’ all!” he calls, and gets variations on ‘hello’ and ‘morning’ in return.

Heading through to his little office, he checks over the notes left from the weekend crew and finds nothing alarming, and is pleased to see there were a reasonably high number of sales made – to be expected, as more people walked by the cafe to enjoy the good weather and might be tempted in to grab a coffee and a cake on their way.

He takes a few minutes to double check the rota he’d put together the last week, and makes sure there were no further changes to make from the news on the group WhatsApp. Task completed, he leaves the office to start work on his baking. Knowing that he wouldn’t be getting a head start on Sunday, on Friday he’d planned to do quicker recipes, as he wouldn’t have time to attempt anything too elaborate.

He’d decided to do three flavours of mini Choux au Craquelin, a gorgeous dark chocolate and sea salt tart that he’d been tweaking, and individual blueberry and lemon loaf cakes. He’s hoping that the lack of complexity will be made up for by the delicate appearances and rich flavours.

As he starts to work, he falls easily into the rhythm. Make the three craquelin toppings first and let them chill. Then make the tart casings, also letting them chill before blind baking. Make the choux pastry for the craquelin and pipe onto the tray; leave them to one side while cutting disks out of the flavoured and coloured toppings. Place the toppings onto the piped mounds and put them and the chilled tart casings into the oven until the choux is risen, the tarts crisp, and all golden. While those are baking, make the batter for the lemon and blueberry cakes, prepare the tins with baking parchment liners, and divide equally between the hollows. Retrieve the tart cases from the oven and set aside to cool, set the choux puffs on the counter for the next step, and put the cakes in. While the cakes bake, gently pierce each choux to let the steam out, and return to the oven for a few minutes to thoroughly dry out and completely crisp. When both cakes and choux are done, remove all to cool on the side. Then, make the chocolate filling. By the time the ganache is complete, the pastry tarts are cool enough to fill. The filling is gently poured into each casing and, once perfectly level, put in the fridge to chill until serving, when the tops will be dusted with a small amount of cocoa mixed with ground espresso powder and sprinkled with sea salt flakes. The craquelins will be filled just before serving to prevent them from going soggy, but the fillings can be made now – the pink-topped choux will have a raspberry cream filling, the cocoa-topped choux will have a sweet coffee cream filling, and the orange will be cream flavoured with fine scrapes of orange zest and a small mount of chopped fresh time. After these are made, they’re put into piping bags and left in the fridge until needed. Lastly, he makes a lemon drizzle icing for the loaf cakes, into which he sets three fresh blueberries and a few long strands of candied lemon zest.

Of course, it isn’t that simple – people come and ask him questions as he works, and once or twice he has to put processes on hold to intervene in person at another workstation. He calls the weekly meeting around his bench rather than risk the cakes overbaking, but easily manages the multiple levels of attention required. He’s been doing this for years, and he is good at it.

When he stops for lunch, he checks his phone and finds a message from Mycroft.  


* * *

_**parapluie_roux >** _

I hope your morning is going better than  
mine.

Well, I’ve got nothing to complain about  
so I’ll be guessing that it has. What’s up?

I had hoped to have more time to plan before  
asking, but could I see you this evening?

I’ve had some good and bad news, both of  
which would be easier to talk about in person.

You and your cryptic, slightly unnerving messages!

Yes, I’m free this evening.

I won’t deny a penchant for drama, but there’s  
a reason for being vague.

Dinner?

Sure.

Is it alright if I send a car for you? It would be  
faster and easier.

I mean...it feels a bit unnecessary, but ok.

Pick me up from the cafe at 6.30?

Perfect. I’ll send you a message with the  
registration number a bit later on.  
I’ve got to get back to work I’m afraid,  
I ducked out of a meeting halfway through.

No problem, see you tonight, and good luck!

Thank you, I suspect I’ll need it.

* * *

  
Instead of grabbing a bite to eat, Greg decides to quickly run past his house to get some date-appropriate clothes together. While seeing Mycroft so soon after their first date wasn’t expected, he certainly wasn’t complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been an age since the last update, sorry! A combination of real life things ganged up on me, but hopefully we're now back on track.
> 
> Three recipes! Greg doesn't follow them exactly, but they're all tweaks that I would make. I am filled with baking hubris, and would tinker before I was wholly familiar with the recipes, but that's just the way I roll. I didn't check to see if the oven timings and temperatures precisely align, but again, with a bit of experience, I think I could find a way to make it work.
> 
> Choux au Craquelin - <http://www.bearnakedfood.com/2015/03/11/choux-au-craquelin/>  
> Salted chocolate tarts - <https://bakedambrosia.com/mini-dark-chocolate-sea-salt-tarts/>  
> Blueberry lemon mini loaf cakes - <https://kitchen-delights.blogspot.com/2015/03/blueberry-and-lemon-drizzle-mini-loaf.html>


	19. Chapter 19

6.25pm sees Greg waiting on the pavement outside the cafe, looking up and down the road for his ride. He has his phone in his hand as something else to fidget with while he bounces on his toes. He’s nervous, but with the good kind of nerves – the butterflies-in-stomach type, instead of soul-heavy dread. The afternoon had flown by, and he’d even managed to coast the hopeful agitation all the way through the latest stacks of paperwork. It had also made him lock up a little bit early, out of fear of missing the car. Not that he really thinks that he’d be left behind, but who could honestly say that they were operating at peak mental capacity ahead of a date?

He’s so preoccupied with scanning the cars going past that he nearly drops his phone when he feels it buzz in his hand. He smiles when he sees who the notification is from.

* * *

**parapluie_roux >**

The car will be with you shortly. I will be  
meeting you at the venue.

Looking forward to it :)

One thing I have yet to mention – this place  
has a few odd rules, one of which is that you  
can’t speak in the common areas.

The front desk is expecting you, and  
someone will escort you to my rooms.

* * *

   
While Greg is staring at his phone in mild disbelief, he receives another message.  


* * *

**parapluie_roux >**

Aren’t you going to get in?

* * *

  
He looks up, and sees that a sleek dark car has pulled up to the curb in front of him. As he watches, the driver gets out and moves around to the rear passenger door, and holds it open for him.

Still somewhat nonplussed, Greg gets into the car and does up his seatbelt before replying.  


* * *

**parapluie_roux >**

What, exactly, have I signed up for?

I promise I will explain all to you later.

I’m just finishing up on a telephone call,  
I will see you within the hour.

Please have patience with me until then.

Of course. I’m still looking forward to seeing  
you, Mr Mystery.

* * *

When no reply was immediately forthcoming, Greg slips the phone into the inner pocket of his jacket and sits back against the comfortable leather seats. He looks out of the window as the driver skilfully navigates the car through the traffic, hopefully towards his date and not towards a quiet alley to be exchanged for the stolen nuclear launch codes. He smiles at the thought – maybe melodrama and surprises were an offshoot of Mycroft’s personality, like the fastidious clothes and the ubiquitous umbrella. If the side effects of dating Mycroft included the feeling that he was an extra in a spy movie, then it was something he’d be glad to put up with.

Eventually the car slows to a definite halt, and the driver again opens the door for Greg, this time escorting him to the right door. It was a very grand building, with steps leading up to a portico to shelter a black door with an ornate golden door-knocker. After the driver thumbs in a code on a discreet number pad next to the door, and ducks to be seen by an even more discreet camera embedded above the numbers, there’s a quiet clunk as the door unlocks. The driver opens the door, ushers Greg inside, and closes the door behind him.

Greg spots the concierge behind the reception desk and walks towards him, offering a small smile as he goes. He remembers the instruction to be silent, and fervently hopes that he won’t be left standing like a lemon for long. The concierge indicates that he’s seen Greg, and that he will be with him in a few minutes. Greg takes the opportunity to have a proper look at the reception area.

It’s softly lit, but not gloomy. The overall feel is Victorian, with smart glossy tiles on the floor leading to a stately staircase, dark wood panelling and heavy pieces of furniture against the wall. It doesn’t feel dated so much as timeless, as if the past century and a half had been too noisy, too gauche, to be permitted access. Despite that, it doesn’t give the sense of a museum, or being stuffy. All the soft furnishings are in great condition, the art on the walls is modern (although keeping to a muted palette), and there’s a selection of manicured house plants to give the whole place a sense of life. Even if it is eerily silent.

He turns towards the footsteps approaching him, and sees a younger man in a uniform who smiles and beckons to Greg to follow. He leads him up the stairs, around the gallery overlooking the stairwell, and down a corridor lined with doors. He knocks on one of them, and opens it in response to a muffled answer from inside. He shows Greg inside, and the door is once again closed behind him.

This rectangular room is decorated in rich reds and golds. The wall opposite has a few sash windows obscured with fine material to ensure privacy, but not block light. One end is walled entirely in bookshelves crammed with tomes. In front the of the nearby fireplace, there are two low leather sofas and a wing-back armchair arranged around a coffee table. As he turns to the other end of the room, he sees Mycroft sitting behind a large mahogany desk covered with careful stacks of paper, files, a laptop, and a phone, with another mobile phone pressed to his ear. Greg smiles and waves, feeling a bit foolish until Mycroft waves back. He continues his phone conversation in a language that Greg thinks might be German. From the look on his face, he is rapidly losing patience with whoever is on the other end of the line. Greg resumes his review of the room until he hears a staccato burst of words from Mycroft, who then hangs up the phone and drops it to the desk with a thud.

“Everything alright?” Greg asks. Mycroft looks a little tired and worn compared to how he had last seen him, but the suit was still immaculate.

“Not as such, but it’s done for now. How are you?” Mycroft quickly scans Greg, and sees that he has clearly put in a bit of extra effort before coming to see him tonight. There is slight concern and good humour in his expression. He’s glad that he hasn’t scared Greg off before he’s had a chance to explain, and his face softens into a smile.

“I’m alright. All the better for seeing you,” Greg says, accompanying it with a wink.

Mycroft rolls his eyes at the line, but can’t prevent the slight blush that comes to his cheeks. He walks towards where Greg is still standing by the door, and stops to face him.

“What would you rather have first? An explanation, a drink, or food?” Mycroft is keen to make sure that Greg is comfortable. Anthea’s warnings against kidnapping and a show of superiority still echo in the back of his mind.

“Well, it depends. How much of an explanation is needed?”

“It’s quite simple but might take a bit of digestion.”

“In which case, how about a drink with the explanation and food to follow?”

“Perfect,” Mycroft says, and walks towards cabinet with glasses below and decanters and bottles above. “What do you fancy? I have the makings of a few classics here, but we can always call down to the bar for anything else you might like.”

“What do you normally have?”

“At this hour? Typically, a herbal tea. After days like today, I feel the need for something stronger.”

Greg nods. “We all have days like that.” He thinks for a while, and comes to stand next to Mycroft to review the selection. “It’s not close enough to summer for me to be in proper pastis mood, but it’s a bit early in the day for neat brandy.”

Mycroft hums and considers his options. “How about a Negroni? Not too summery, still has a kick but technically sits in the aperitif family?”

“Sounds good.” Greg smiles, stepping back to lean against the desk and watch Mycroft work.

Mycroft searches out the appropriate glasses and places them on the top ledge. He then carefully shrugs out of his jacket, passing it to Greg and asking him to put it on the coat-hanger on the stand behind his desk.

Task completed, Greg returns to his spot in time to see Mycroft putting chunks of ice into each glass. He then pours in equal amounts of gin, red vermouth and Campari into each, stirring as he goes to thoroughly chill the alcohol. Finishing with twist of orange, he turns with both glasses in hand and passes one to Greg. He takes a sip, waiting until Greg has also tasted his and nods approvingly before indicating that they should move to the sofas.

For the first time, Greg notices that there is an envelope on the table. He sits at one end of the sofa, leaning into the corner and crossing an ankle over his knee. He watches as Mycroft sits on the opposite sofa, smack bang in the middle with his back towards the books. Mycroft searches out coasters for his and Greg’s drinks before he leans forwards, rests his elbows on his knees, interlocks his fingers and starts to talk.

“Do you remember what I’ve told you about my job so far?”

“That a lot of it is confidential so if you can’t talk about it, it’s not because you don’t trust me, but because you’re not allowed to say.”

“Exactly. That is still true. Tell me, what do you imagine my job is, that needs so much secrecy?”

“Honestly, I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” Greg shrugs. “Loads of companies need to keep things secret from their competitors, it’s not so unusual.”

“But to the extent where I never even told you what sphere I worked in?”

Greg pauses at this, mentally reviewing their conversations. He takes another sip of his Negroni.

“Now you say it, that is kind of odd. I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“I’m quite skilled at diverting attention when needed, don’t feel bad about not realising.” Mycroft takes in a deep breath, watching Greg swirling the ice around in his drink. He’s still relaxed, but perhaps a little bit more wary than when he arrived.

“I can tell you a little more now, face-to-face, than I could in writing. I hold a minor position in the British government, and as such I need to be careful about with whom I speak, and what information I choose to share.”

“A minor position? That gets you the swanky suits, the swish cars and the silent private club?”

“Officially, yes, when combined with hints about a family inheritance.”

“And unofficially?”

Mycroft’s clasped hands whiten as he increases the strength of his grip. Seeing that Greg has noticed, he reaches for his own drink and takes a mouthful before returning it to the table. He directs his gaze to the envelope.

“Here is where it gets complicated. First, let me say that I want to be as honest with you as possible. I enjoy our conversations, I loved our day together at Kew, and I am very sincere in my wish to see this through to wherever it leads. I am aware that asking to see you the Monday night after the first date on the Saturday has tones of being overeager, but quite frankly, I care for you so much already that it frightens me. I would normally have let it play out more naturally, but circumstance has shortened my timeline and forced my hand.” Mycroft risks a glance over at Greg, who is beginning to look concerned again.

“I enjoy our time together too, Mycroft. Never doubt that. We’re too old to be playing games – you should know that I’m in for this long-term too, no matter where it goes. I trust you.”

“Thank you. And it’s for the sake of that trust that I’ve had to rush to this conversation.” Mycroft pauses for another swig of alcohol. “What I say to you next has to be kept confidential. You can’t tell anyone else. Do you agree?”

Greg sits upright and puts his drink down. “Yes, of course. I promise.”

“Alright.” Mycroft takes in a deep breath, and slowly lets it out. “My position in the grand scheme of things is not, in fact, quite so minor as the official cover story. When I entered this trade, it was made clear to me that the security of the country is more important than my private life, and I agreed. I still do, to some extent. At the time I had no intention of striking up a meaningful personal relationship with anyone and barely gave it a second thought...but now, with you, things have changed. When I realised that I would like to have more than an anonymous, superficial friendship with you, I had to report my interest. It’s a standard procedure designed to protect us personally, and more widely the nation, from falling under the thumb of an unsuitable individual. My office has then run a background check on you to ensure that you’re not working for a rival government, or that there are no pressure points in your past that could be used to leverage you into influencing me. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, they were obviously unable to seek your consent before doing this research. The good news is, you passed – otherwise I would never have been allowed to ask you on a date.

“This envelope contains a copy of the Official Secrets Act, a handful of other agreements, and a key card. Before I can explain any further, you need to make a decision.” Another steadying breath and fortifying drink are taken. “Knowing all this, and how much I’ve been keeping from you, and how much you need to keep from others...do you still want to give this relationship a go? Or would you like to end it here?”

Greg leans forward, taking in all the evidence he can. Mycroft is obviously nervous, fidgeting with the glass and flexing the fingers on his spare hand. This is hard for him, Greg realises.

“Am I allowed to ask questions before I decide?”

“Yes, but I might not be able to answer them.” Mycroft is glad that Greg hasn’t immediately walked out of the room, but knows he’s not out of the woods yet.

Greg smiles. “These should be easy: can we have another drink, and should we order food? I’m starting to get hungry, and it might take a while to thrash things out.”

Slightly wrong-footed, all Mycroft can do is nod, and watch as Greg heads back across the room with their glasses to make them another drink.

“Do you think you can show me how you do it? I’m worried about getting the proportions wrong and I can’t see any measures.”

By the time Mycroft reaches him, Greg has removed his own jacket, slung it carelessly over the back of Mycroft’s desk chair, and has started to roll his shirt sleeves up to his elbow. He doesn’t notice himself moistening his lips as he sees the strong forearms being gradually revealed, and luckily for him nor does Greg.

“I learned to free pour through practice. More than that is, I’m afraid, classified. At least for now,” Mycroft adds with a smirk.

“Tease.”

“Yes, well.” Mycroft clears his throat and hopes there’s no undue colour in his cheeks. “In the meantime, there should be jiggers on the lower shelf.”

As Mycroft directs him through the motions of making another pair of Negroni, Greg sets him the task of ordering their meal. Mycroft telephones the order through while Greg makes precise spirals of orange zest as the garnish.

“The food will be with us in 45 minutes,” Mycroft says.

“Alright, that should be enough time to talk through some things. I’m not stalling to make you suffer, I promise, though I won’t deny that I am enjoying making you blush.” Which, of course, sets Mycroft off again. _Adorable_.

Still, there’s no more avoiding the subject, Greg thinks – his hand has been forced, too. It’s time to come clean, for both their sakes. He only hopes that he’s halfway as good at explaining things as Mycroft is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a long chapter, and I still cut it somewhat short! I suspect there'll be more typos than normal, please do tell me if you spot anything awful.
> 
> The only recipe here is for Negroni; I prefer the classic 1:1:1 proportion but you might find that too bitter.


	20. Chapter 20

Greg leads them back to the sofas, waiting for Mycroft to sit in his previous spot before coming to join him on the same sofa. Mycroft scoots along a bit from the centre, not having expected Greg to move places. They end up much as they had at Kew, leaning into the corners and turning to face each other as best they could. It feels less like a formal interview this way, Greg thinks, though he suspects the reduced physical distance is unsettling Mycroft a little.

Greg tries aiming a small smile at Mycroft, hoping to put both of them more at ease. Greg’s uncertainty in where to begin is translated into the tapping of his index finger against the glass he’s holding. He can’t just blurt out ‘I really really like you and am definitely very keen on spending more time with you and maybe taking things further but have recently recognised that my feelings on sex can best be summed up as _meh_ and I know it’s too soon to be talking about this because we’ve been on approximately one-and-a-half dates so I really hope you’re okay with this but I have no idea how you’ll react please don’t hate me’, if only because he might pass out before he gets to the end of the sentence. And then have to repeat it.

Other than the gentle rocking of the ice in his drink and the sounds of their breathing, the only sound is the clock on the mantle behind his head. Mycroft is getting noticeably more nervous as the seconds tick by, so Greg makes a decision.

Stall. Stall, until the right words fall into his head.

“You said your hand was forced, earlier. When you were telling me about why you had to see me tonight. Can you tell me any more about that?”

“A little, but I’m afraid it would need to be vague” Mycroft says, before taking a sip from his glass, and gazes towards the fireplace behind Greg. “For reasons I can’t go into, I will be leaving the country early tomorrow morning. Somewhat unexpectedly. What was initially due to be a brief trip has since expanded into an open-ended tour. I’m not sure how long I’ll be away for, or how frequently I will be able to contact you. I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you, or had lost interest.”

Greg nods his understanding, but waits to see if Mycroft will continue. After a steadying breath, he does.

“To further complicate my day, that stack of paperwork was also delivered to me. I told you almost as soon as I had deduced your true identity – how could I behave any differently after having your whole life handed to me in a manilla envelope?” Mycroft motions towards it with his glass, abrupt but careful to avoid any spillage. “It would have eaten away at me while I was working, and then how could I have explained the fact that I’d had it for all the intervening time? Lie to you, on top of withholding information of that magnitude? I couldn’t take the risk that you might see it as a betrayal, or begin to doubt what we’ve started to build together.” This time, he brings his eyes back to Greg’s. “Already you are too dear to me. I can juggle all manner of secrets and conflicts in the pursuit of my work, but with you...it all comes unstuck. I reasoned it was better to rush into asking to see you tonight rather than wait, plan, and potentially lose it all.”

“I can understand that,” Greg says. “Getting your cloak-and-dagger texts is unnerving enough, knowing that there’s potentially bad news looming in the near future but not knowing what shape it’s going to be in. Having a whole secret dossier on your not-quite-boyfriend who’s known to have serious trust issues would be enough to distract anyone. And if you’re as important as it sounds you are, you can’t afford to have distractions.”

“Quite,” Mycroft says with a wry smile.

“I’m...honoured, I guess, that you think I’m worth the risk. Sounds like I’ve been causing you nothing but distractions so far.” Greg pauses, and looks down to the glass held in his hand. Mycroft is already under so much pressure just by knowing Greg. He wonders if his revelation will tip the balance, make him realise that Greg’s not worth the trouble after all. He takes a long drink, draining the rest of his glass. The melting ice slides around the bottom of the glass as he rights it.

“I understand that this is a lot to take in,” Mycroft says, rushing to fill the gap in conversation. Gone is the patient statesman, the canny politician, in the face of Greg’s discomfort. He’s too far away to take Greg’s hand, so he aborts the attempt, instead turning his hand palm upwards in an expansive gesture. Willing Greg to trust him. “Truth be told, even if we hadn’t started dating, it would eventually have come to this. I would have wanted to be more open about myself as our friendship deepened, but this sheaf of papers also helps ensure your safety. It proves that you are who you say you are, so safe from further scrutiny from my colleagues. Unofficially, the fact that this report has been compiled will have made its route on the rumour circuit, and declared you as someone of personal importance to me. Those who might otherwise have been a threat if I had been more ambiguous in my regard for you, now know that you are off limits. My reputation is enough to protect you. If you sign the papers, I can tell you more about why protection is necessary.” Mycroft is sure to watch Greg carefully, wanting to be sure he catches every nuance of expression to see if he has judged this right. To determine what his next move should be.

Greg isn’t sure what to think. It’s a lot. Before, it sounded as if the paperwork was a more official version of the non-disclosure agreements he’d signed as part of joining the PR agency; now, it appears his personal safety was at stake just for knowing Mycroft at all. He turns over a few of the other thoughts in his mind, and crunches the remaining ice in his glass. He thinks about how Mycroft said this meeting would have happened even if they’d stayed as friends, without mixing in the whole relationship thing. He sees how much of an effort Mycroft’s making to try and make Greg comfortable, probably telling him more than he should to prove his honesty. Keep his trust. Yes, Mycroft’s not quite what he thought he was, but there’s a good reason for the disguise, and he’s done his best to limit the extent of the lie – which is more than most people have done for him. Finally, he remembers his decision to follow this thing with Mycroft to the end, no matter where it goes.

“Alright. So far as I can tell, my options are to cut off communications with you entirely, or to sign the paperwork.” Greg can see Mycroft’s eyes widen, and hastily continues, “and I’m not ready to walk away from this, Mycroft. I’ll sign. But I’d like to keep taking a slow pace after this, even though this stuff is probably more legally binding than my marriage was.” Greg smiles, to show that it’s a feeble joke. “Is that okay with you? We’ve got a lot of getting to know each other to get through.” He watches as Mycroft relaxes, and meets the quiet smile with a proper one of his own.

“Of course,” Mycroft says softly. “Anything you need.”

They sit quietly for a few moments, listening to the clock tick and privately congratulating themselves on another tricky discussion successfully navigated, and in Greg’s case, a tricky subject successfully postponed. Their peace was shattered by a discreet knock on the door, causing both of them to start.

“Ah, that will be the food,” Mycroft says, and he stands to collect it from the porter at the door. Turning back towards the sofa with the tray, he continues, “I wasn’t sure if we would still be talking things through at this point, so I asked them to send items that could stand to be left until we were ready. As it happens, the kitchens had perfect timing.” He sets the tray on the table. “It appears we have been given mezze, I hope that suits you?”

“Sounds good – I’d eat a scabby dog about now, I’m so hungry!” Greg grins.

Greg takes it as a good sign that Mycroft comes to sit next to him again, despite the scabby dog comment. For the next few minutes, they happily tuck in to the various salads, dips, meats and cheeses from the tray, with pitta to mop up oils or transfer hummus from plate to mouth. They fall into familiar patterns by talking about the quality of the food, comparing stories of other places and times where they had eaten similar meals.

Fortified, they clear away the debris onto the tray and turn to the paperwork. Each page on both copies requires an initial from both of them – Greg to say that he’s understood, Mycroft to say that he’s witnessed Greg reading and understanding. It takes the best part of an hour, until they get to the final form.

“Why am I getting a key card?” Greg asks. “What’s it for?”

Mycroft shifts in his seat, and clears his throat before answering. “It’s for my house. Or flat, really. I know we’re a long way away from exchanging keys, but to be honest I was expecting this approval process to take much longer, and for it to be a more appropriate time to at least broach the subject. As it stands, all of these forms are part of the set, so unfortunately acceptance of the key and the procedures around it are necessary to complete the handover.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Maybe next time you’re feeling down I can leave the comfort food in person, instead of by proxy,” Greg says with a teasing smile.

“Let’s hope those instances will be few and far between,” Mycroft says.

Greg hums his agreement, and initials and signs the last of the forms before sliding them across to Mycroft.

“Think that’s the last of it. Now what happens?” Greg asks, watching Mycroft sign his name with a flourish.

“Now, I’d like to borrow your phone. It won’t take a moment, I’d just like to sweep it and upgrade its encryption.”

“Sure, it’s in my jacket pocket.” Greg watches as Mycroft crosses the room to where Greg left his jacket, and then plugs it into the laptop on his desk. It does indeed only take a little while before Mycroft stands and returns, with Greg’s and his own mobiles in hand.

“There we are, all done.”

“Thanks. Anything I need to be aware of?” Greg asks, as he reclaims his phone.

“Not much – all’s well, and now we’re secure to speak over the phone if we want to. I’ve also taken the liberty of adding an app for more protected text-based discussions.” Mycroft leans over to point out the icon on Greg’s screen, before sending a message to show how it works.

Greg fiddles with the settings before asking, “So, why do you have to go away?”

Mycroft lets his head drop to rest on the sofa’s back, gazing up at the ceiling. “In brief, a subordinate attempted to usurp my position on a pan-European security committee. The committee itself isn’t overly important, but the relationships are.” Mycroft sighs before continuing. “If I had been kept in the loop it would have only been a day’s trip to Brussels for a meeting; as it stands, the damage he has caused will likely make it necessary to visit many of the major political centres of Europe to smooth ruffled feathers in person. I can make an educated guess as to how long it should take to resolve the actual problems, but salving egos is not an exact science.” Mycroft rolls his head to look across at Greg. “I can give you more details if you like, but to be honest I’ve spent so long on this today I’d rather change the subject.”

Greg gives a lopsided smile. “Can you tell me about why you learned to free pour booze?” he asks, which – to his delight – startles a laugh out of Mycroft, and he sits more upright to tell his tale.

“A lot of it is still classified, but in my youth I was more active in the field. One of my assignments was to obtain some information, and I decided the best way to do it was to inveigle myself into my target’s routine. He was hard to get close to, but he could be counted on to visit a particular club a few evenings a week in Earl’s Court. After a crash course in the art of cocktails and some mild bribery, I successfully became his favourite barman, and eventually his drunken confidante. Mission accomplished,” Mycroft finishes with a smile.

“In your youth...must’ve been the 80s, yeah? Christ, I held onto punk for far too long. Thought I looked the bee’s knees, but I must have been ridiculous. How about you?”

Briefly distracted by the thought of Greg in leathers, ripped denim and eyeliner, Mycroft nearly missed the question. “Oh- well, when not in the field I dressed much like this,” he says, waving his hand at himself. “For that assignment, I went full New Romantic. Dyed my hair black, full face of make-up, glitter, the whole nine yards. I’d say it was to fit in, but I won’t deny that I enjoyed the persona while it lasted.”

Similarly distracted by the thought of a younger Mycroft with hair swooping low over his forehead and outrageous amounts of rouge and eyeshadow, Greg switches the conversation to other unfortunate fashion disasters of his past. They quickly descend into one-upmanship, and only stop when Mycroft pauses for breath during the latest fit of laughter and happens to catch sight of the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Good lord, is that the time?”

“Time flies,” Greg replies. “I should probably head home, and didn’t you say you had an early start?”

“Sadly, yes,” Mycroft sighs. “Let me call us a car each, and we can head out together.”

Mycroft sends for the cars, and Greg puts on his jacket and adds the key card to his wallet while he watches Mycroft pack up his desk to take with him. A subtle vibration from Mycroft’s pocket indicates that the cars are ready for them, and they head back through the silent club to the front door together.

Mycroft draws to a halt on the pavement, and Greg stops with him. They turn towards each other, breathing the cool night air.

“I’m going to miss you,” Mycroft admits.

“I know. I’m going to miss you too, but I’ll only be a phone call away. The time will pass before you know it,” Greg says, smiling reassuringly.

Mycroft appears conflicted for a moment, before reaching out his right hand as if to shake Greg’s. Greg looks at it quizzically, looks up at Mycroft’s face, and steps in closer to give him a hug. Surprised, it takes a moment or two before Mycroft reciprocates, his right arm tight across Greg’s back, his left more awkwardly clasped, encumbered as it is with the briefcase.

“Safe travels,” Greg says into Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Mycroft mutters into Greg’s hair. It tickles his lips.

Greg releases him and steps back to take in his expression, his hands still curving lightly around Mycroft’s sides.

“I mean it. Stay safe, and call when you can.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mycroft replies. A second subtle buzz from Mycroft’s phone prompts them both into action.

On the way home, in the back of the car, Greg reviews the events of the day, and snorts. Turns out his imaginings about being an extra in a spy movie were closer to reality than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took FOREVER. No recipes this time, please feel free to imagine your own personal preferred combinations for the mezze. I would gladly live on mezze all day every day for the rest of my days!
> 
> Earl's Court in the 70s and 80s was apparently *the* place to be for the gay community, though in more recent times it's moved on to Soho and Vauxhall. Did you know there's an LGBT Archive? Because until tonight, I certainly didn't!
> 
> I'll leave you to your own googlings about punk and New Romantic fashion, though I will say that looking for images of "Rupert Graves punk" is time well spent.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a long stream of text exchange. I’ve had a bit of a nightmare deciding on the formatting...I hope it works. It’s not particularly relevant, but all times are London time (therefore for the most part, Mycroft is one hour ahead). Imagine it’s a bit like WhatsApp. For spies.

_\---Tuesday - 9 th April 2019---_

Ugh. Why don’t we keep our metabolisms from our 20s all the way through? Definitely could have done with a lie-in after yesterday – GL 06:47  
Huh – that’s weird – GL 06:48  
I’m not typing GL each time – GL 06:48

It’s a feature of the secure app, designed to make it easier to manage more complicated conversations. - MH 06:50

Fair enough, as long as i’ve not broken it already! – GL 06:50  
I’m just making my first cup of coffee of the day. Have you left yet? - GL 06:51 

Loitering at St Pancras with a substandard cardboard cup of tea. I’m due to board shortly. I trust you slept well, despite the early start? - MH 06:52

Like a log. Im not really complaining, i’d probably sleepwalk through my morning runs they’re so routine now! – GL 06:52  
I’m tired, but I’ll live – GL 06:52 

Happy to hear it. They’re calling me to board now; I probably won’t be available until late tonight. I hope you have a good day – MH 06:54

You too! Good luck in your meetings, speak later – GL 06:54  
Just thinking – there’s got to be a way to get better tea when you’re out and about – GL 12:40  
Though I suppose it might spoil the aesthetic if you had a reusable cup – GL 15:30  
You could have a different one every day to match your tie – GL 15:34  
Christ, I’m tired – GL 19:30 

You and me both – I’ve only just managed to escape to my room for the night – MH 21:04

Oh no – were you in meetings all this time?! - GL 21:05

Unfortunately yes. One long meeting, which extended into a long evening meal, and then a mandatory nightcap at the hotel bar… - MH 21:07

Was it at least successful? - GL 21:07

Yes and no. The meeting objectives were achieved, with actions agreed to, but it has become clear that there’s something else going on in the background, more than a junior member of staff being overly ambitious. - MH 21:09

Sounds serious – GL 21:09

Time and investigation will tell, I’m sure. - MH 21:10

I’m glad i got to see you last night – GL 21:11  
not sure how i’d have coped without being able to talk to you properly – GL 21:14  
Can barely keep my eyes open – I’m for bed. Sleep well, Mycroft x – GL 21:31 

Sleep well, Greg. - MH 21:39

_\---Wednesday - 10 th April 2019---_

I’m glad my gamble paid off, by the way. I could have kept my actual doings secret, but why take the risk of slipping up and pushing you away? That’s the last thing I want to do. - MH 01:15  
Also, we looked into reusable travel mugs. It was decided it was too much of a risk – too easy for the opposition to get their hands on an item that was nearly guaranteed to come into contact with an agent’s skin or mouth. - MH 05:29  
Alas, single-use cardboard cups or randomly selected restaurant crockery is the lot of the shadowy employee of Her Majesty’s Government when out in public. - MH 05:30 

Did you get any sleep at all? - GL 05:59

Sufficient, thank you. - MH 06:00

I‘m not mother-henning. Just, you’re being oddly poetic for this time in the morning and i’m wondering if it’s because you’re tired or if it’s some other reason – GL 06:02  
brb, off to run – GL 06:02 

I had quite a lot of prep work to do ahead of today’s meetings, hence my late night. I managed to slip out of the hotel to find a much nicer breakfast down the road, which has helped improve my mood. I’ve finally managed to get my hands on a decent cup of tea, the sun is shining, and for once I have someone I care about to talk with while doing this tour. - MH 06:05  
I’m focussing on the good while I can. - MH 06:05 

Well, you know I care for you too. You expecting things to get bad, then? - GL 06:40  
Anything I can do to help? - GL 06:41 

Thank you for asking, but no – other than your continued patience. - MH 06:45  
I must head off to my first meeting. I’m not sure when I might next be free, I hope you have a good day. - MH 06:47 

You got it. Good luck! - GL 06:56  
You might know - can you die from paperwork? - GL 12:32 

Are the stacks high enough to crush you? Is there a very patient assassin willing to bleed you dry by a thousand papercuts? - MH 14:36

Not yet, and not that i’ve seen – GL 14:38

In which case, probably not. More’s the pity. I would have been laid to rest long ago. - MH 17:11

Or made a claim for hazard pay. How’s it going? - GL 17:12

Four meetings down, another ‘informal’ meeting over dinner again tonight. - MH 17:15  
I’m famished, but tonight’s restaurant is infamous for repeatedly trying and failing to make alternative protein sources popular. - MH 17:16 

Like tofu? - GL 17:16

Like insects. - MH 17:17 

Oh. - GL 17:18  
Well. - GL 17:18  
Maybe plan to stop by a kebab shop on the way back? - GL 17:18 

Indeed. I expect I’ll be back late, so I’ll say goodnight now. - MH 18:00

Enjoy, if you can x – GL 18:02

_\---Thursday - 11 th April 2019---_

I had a brilliant idea this morning – GL 09:30

Oh? - MH 09:32

Yeah. I’m going to do specials at the cafe to match your location – GL 09:33

Intriguing. Is this a ploy to get me to tell you where I’m heading next? Because I truthfully don’t know very far in advance. - MH 09:40

I just thought it’d be fun. I’m always looking for new recipes. I can set you homework to go and find one when you’re out there, then you can try my humble efforts and see if i’m up to snuff – GL 09:42  
I don’t mind if i’m a day or two being your actual location if it takes a while to prep or whatever – GL 09:44  
*behind – GL 09:45 

What would you do for the fair city of Brussels? - MH 10:15

Squashed fly biscuits with a candied scorpion garnish, if yesterday is anything to go by ;) - GL 11:01  
Seriously. How was it? - GL 11:01 

Awful. Though the frites I picked up on the way back were almost worth it. - MH 11:04  
My exercise regime always falls by the wayside when I travel, as does any attempt at eating healthily. I hate it. - MH 11:39 

Does your hotel not have a gym? - GL 12:03

Yes, but it’s finding the time. I’m frequently stuck in meetings every waking hour. - MH 12:27

I’m definitely sending you out on missions to get pastries, then. Walk out, get some fresh air, stretch the legs – GL 12:30  
Everyone needs a break sometimes, even shadowy omniscient secret government people. - GL 14:07 

Your wish is my command. - MH 17:13  
I’ve asked Anthea to make an hour’s gap in my schedule at each location. What is your first assignment? I’ve just arrived in Berlin. - MH 17:15 

Anthea? - GL 18:01

My assistant. - MH 18:02

Hmm...give me a minute to research – GL 18:02  
A bienenstich. Apparently they’re easy to find, and I’d really like to give it a go – GL 18:05 

Mission accepted. How was your day? - MH 18:06

Alright thanks, nothing much exciting happened. Managed to conquer the leaning towers of paperwork – GL 18:09  
You? - GL 18:09 

Yet more meetings and then the last-minute flight to Berlin. No major traumas to report, and the suspected background issue is beginning to take shape. The evening is my own other than prep for tomorrow, thank goodness. I’m going to order something from room service and then get into the research. - MH 18:12

I think i’m going to make some sort of pasta puttanesca and put my feet up in front of the telly. Here if you feel like chatting – GL 18:13

Thank you. Enjoy your evening – MH 18:13

You too x – GL 18:14

_\---Friday - 12 th April 2019---_

Morning :) it’s bloody cold, but a lovely sunny day here today – GL 06:32  
Bienenstich have a yeasted dough, so i’m going to have to prepare that and the filling today and finish and bake them tomorrow. A nice Saturday treat for the regulars – GL 10:07  
Actually, that reminds me – should probably do an update fro instagram – GL 12:31  
*for – GL 12:32  
Customer left behind a magazine yesterday and one of the guys is reading out bits between his tasks – GL 14:16  
Apparently my horoscope says that I will have a perfect relationship with friends and family, and this will be of positive impact on my life – GL 14:17  
Load of shit, but it made me realise I don’t know your birthday – GL 14:18  
Hope I haven’t missed it! - GL 14:19  
I’m taking it home with me. I want to know what’s been made up for you – GL 18:24  
It’s got some first-date questions in the advice section. Reads more like an interrogation than anything – GL 19:06  
Where do you live? How long have you lived there? What’s your job? How long have you worked there? Did you go to uni? What did you study? Do you have any family? What’s your most valuable possession? If I murder you, how long until someone notices you’ve gone? - GL 19:11  
Obviously the last one’s a joke – GL 19:12  
Though it’s still better than some! - GL 19:14  
Hope you’re ok. - GL 19:39  
I’m choosing to believe that you’re just super busy and i’ve not bored you – GL 19:58  
Or that something bad has happened to you – GL 20:00  
Shit. Is something bad likely to happen to you? - GL 20:03  
Fuck. I really hope you’re ok – GL 20:15  
You’d tell me if you were doing sometihng risky, right? - GL 20:17  
I know I don’t have the right to ask, but...please? - GL 20:17  
Alright. I’m definitely overthinking things now. I’m sure you’re fine. Going to bed, hope to speak tomorrow – GL 21:19  
Don’t think i’ve forgotten about the bienenstich x – GL 21:20

_\---Saturday - 13 th April 2019---_

The meeting took place somewhere where I had to hand over my phones at the door and I forgot to tell you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t respond to your messages until now. - MH 01:20  
I liked the lighting in the Instagram photo, you can just about see the steam curling in the sunlight. - MH 01:22  
My birthday is 7th September, which Google tells me means I’m a Virgo. - MH 01:24  
Your birthday is 28th June, if I remember correctly. Making you a Cancer. - MH 01:25  
Further research indicates that the experts in these things would class us as compatible. Which is strangely reassuring, despite knowing that it is (undeniably) bunkum. - MH 01:28  
Onto the more serious business. I am not in as much danger as I was when I was younger. I am still a target, but it is extremely unlikely that anyone will make a serious attempt to remove me. If only because, should they be successful, the full weight of the British security services will come down on them like a ton of bricks; should they be unsuccessful, I myself will make an example of them. - MH 01:33  
I can’t blame you for worrying though. If I’m about to do ‘something risky’, I will let you know. If I can. - MH 01:34  
I’ve not forgotten about the Bienenstich either. I have a breakfast meeting in a few hours, but the majority of the day should be free. Anthea has certainly cleared the requested hour, at least. - MH 01:37  
Finally back at the hotel. I’m going to pass out for a few hours, but I will be sure to contact you as soon as I’m done with my first meeting of the day. - MH 02:12  
I look forward to knowing what my horoscope has in store for me. - MH 02:14 

I’m sorry for panicking. And spamming you. I'm so glad you're ok. - GL 05:58

Not at all. I’m sorry for forgetting to tell you I would be unobtainable for the day. I’m still not used to having someone who might notice. - MH 06:46  
I will do better next time. - MH 06:47 

It’s totally my fault, I know you’re busy. I’ll try and rein it in – GL 06:49

I am always interested in what you have to say – don’t stop messaging me on that account. Please. - MH 06:50

Just let me know if i get too much – GL 06:50

That could never happen. - MH 06:51

Promise me – GL 06:51

I, Mycroft Holmes, do solemnly swear that in the extremely unlikely event that I ever find you, Gregory Lestrade, to be ‘too much’, I will tell you so. - MH 06:52  
Acceptable? - MH 06:53 

Acceptable :) - GL 06:53

Good. I must get ready for my meeting. I should be available from 10:00 UK time. Let me know how the Bienenstich come along. - MH 06:54

Just approaching the cafe now. Good luck! – GL 06:55  
I love brioche dough. Lovely to work with – GL 07:06  
So. Smooth. - GL 07:06  
They look perfect, even if I do say so myself – GL 09:56  
I’ve got no idea if they’re authentic, but it’s passed the taste test. Going to quickly write up a card for it and post it on instagram – GL 10:05 

I’m glad it’s gone well. I’ve just finished the meeting - calling it ‘breakfast’ was a bit optimistic – just some sub-par cold meats with underripe fruit. Most disappointing. - MH 10:14 

Well then – perfect excuse to get out into the city in search of a pastry ;) - GL 10:23  
Did it go well? - GL 10:24 

No, but it was exactly as expected. I’ll tell you more in a bit – just putting gloves on before I brave the great outdoors. - MH 10:31  
The waitress said that I should have coffee with the cake. It was a good call. Buttery brioche-type dough, Amaretto crème pâtissière and a lovely honey-flavoured caramel topping with almonds. - MH 11:23  
Does that match what you achieved? - MH 11:24 

Yep! You’ll have to tell me whose is better, when you’re back – GL 11:26

I look forward to it. - MH 11:26

What happened at the meeting, then? - GL 11:27

Oh, the usual posturing and prevarication. Technically nothing was achieved, but they were reminded of their obligations and the consequences of not standing by the agreements we have in place. And I managed to glean far more about the situation than they expressed in words, which is fortuitous. I now have a better idea of what I’m dealing with. I can’t tell you the specifics, but at least I shouldn’t be in any more danger than normal. Physically, at least. - MH 11:32  
It does mean that I won’t be available for part of this afternoon and most of tomorrow. Our next port of call will be Paris, and we will be flying out today. - MH 11:32 

You’ll be pleased to know that your horoscope says that April will be challenging but rewarding – GL 11:33

Well. Who am I to argue with fate? - MH 11:34

Quite so ;) - GL 11:35  
I’ve got a meeting of my own this afternoon, and i’m desperate to go get lunch before it. If we don’t get a chance to catch up later, safe travels! Let me know when you land (if you can) x – GL 12:33 

Thank you – it’s unlikely, I’m afraid, that I will be free until sometime tomorrow afternoon. Yet more preparations today, then the flight, then the transfer to the hotel, and yet another jam-packed day of meetings. - MH 12:35  
I’d think Anthea was getting revenge on me for something, except that she has to sit through all of it too. - MH 12:37 

Alright, I promise I won’t worry – GL 12:39  
Sleep well, Mycroft – GL 21:54

_\---Sunday - 14 th April 2019---_

Pleasant dreams, Greg – MH 00:32

I really hope you get to catch up on sleep soon – GL 07:34

Me too. And I’m desperate to go for a run. - MH 14:32

Do you get a break any time soon? Because your mission for Paris is to find and enjoy tarte Bourdaloue. – GL 14:35 

Tuesday is looking favourable for pastry. And tomorrow’s meetings don’t start until the afternoon, so I can either catch up on sleep or catch up on exercise. - MH 14:54 

Toss a coin for it – GL 14:55

Heads. - MH 15:03

Sleep – GL 15:04

It’s a deal. - MH 15:10  
I must get on and finish up with today’s nonsense, especially if I’m to get to bed at a reasonable hour. - MH 15:11 

Speak to you tomorrow? - GL 15:15 

Hopefully. I’ll let you know if that changes – MH 16:04  
Goodnight Greg. - MH 20:39 

Sleep well x – GL 20:40 

And, of course, the night that I have time to sleep is the night insomnia strikes. - MH 22:56  
I keep replaying your hug. And before that, when you tucked my arm in yours at Kew, then let your hand linger in mine. Strange, how such small and simple gestures have stuck with me. And yet. I can’t remember when anyone else touched me with affection. - MH 23:01  
I’ve had dalliances over the years, but when I cast my mind back...it must have been university, the last time I pursued anything resembling a relationship. Which is almost too long ago to bear thinking about. - MH 23:16  
I’m so glad. So very, very glad that you allowed me to meet with you. I hadn’t realised how deeply I had pushed the loneliness and isolation. I told myself that I had deliberately built an icy exterior for intimidation purposes, but now I wonder if it wasn’t also partly a defence mechanism. If I was impervious to flirtation, then the leeches only interested in my influence wouldn’t be able to get their teeth into me. - MH 23:31  
I’m sorely out of practice. A bit of sleep deprivation, and I can’t stop myself from baring my soul. - MH 23:32  
I’m going to try and sleep again. I hope you’re having a better night than I. - MH 23:57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. What a lot of writing. I wasn't sure how to handle them being apart until I hit on the idea of text; it's still taking F O R E V E R to write, but it's a bit more streamlined. I think there'll be one more chapter like this before we get back to the boys in person.
> 
> Links to sources in chronological order:  
> "Squashed fly" biscuits (not sure if anyone outside the UK will get this): <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garibaldi_biscuit>  
> Candied scorpions (definitely not on my to-be-made list!): <https://www.instructables.com/id/Scorpion-Lollipops/>  
> Bienenstich (super tempted. I'm on holiday in France and I'm living my best pastry-based life): <https://www.askchefdennis.com/bee-sting-cake-by-a-feast-for-the-eyes/>  
> Puttanesca sauce (slut's or slattern's sauce - no fresh ingredients really required, sex work optional): <https://www.davidlebovitz.com/pasta-puttanesca-recipe/>  
> Virgo and Cancer compatibility if you're interested: <https://www.liveabout.com/cancer-and-virgo-compatibility-206567>  
> Tarte Bourdaloue (I only like pears poached or baked): <https://www.marmiton.org/recettes/recette_tarte-bourdaloue-aux-poires_168578.aspx>


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tread a little carefully if you're feeling tender about coming out, or asexuality and how partners have viewed it negatively in the past, or variations thereon. I'd guess that 99% of readers will be ok if you want to take the risk. Not to give too many spoilers, but Greg's ex is still a cow and Mycroft is as considerate as ever.  
> Please do contact me if you want to ask more questions before reading on - fastest to do it on Twitter, probably, or as a comment on a previous chapter.

_\---Monday - 15 th April 2019---_

Sweetheart...d’you know how much it means to me, that you feel safe enough to share that? You never have to worry about telling me these things – GL 06:02  
I won’t tease you, or poke fun. I was at least as lonely and untrusting as you were when you fell into my life, and i’m just as surprised at you about how we’ve gotten to where we are – GL 06:04  
God. I think about that hug too. When I first saw you in all your layers, I could barely keep my hands to myself. You looked so touchable, but unsure at the same time. - GL 06:05  
Though I guess going in for a hug might have put you off at that stage! - GL 06:06  
You try so hard to make sure I’m comfortable and happy, and I want to make srue you know I want to do that for you, too – GL 06:07  
I was waiting for the ‘right time’ to talk to you about this, but talking about your past experiences probably gives me the best opening that i’m going to get – GL 06:15  
Obviously you know that I was married to Liz for a while. We met young, probably got in too deep too soon. Before her, I had a few casual flings with guys as well as girls, but nothing long term. Probably for some of the same reasons that Liz finally left in the way she did, but maybe I’m reading too much into it – GL 06:20  
Sorry. I’ve been doing some thinking lately and it’s all getting jumbled. I’ll try and start at the beginning. Going to be a bit of an essay for you to wake up to. – GL 06:21  
Sorry - GL 06:21  
Again – GL 06:22  
When you said you wanted to date me, I panicked a little. Liz cheated on me, had been cheating on me for a while before we split up – GL 06:24  
God, this is hard to say. Write. - GL 06:25  
She got pretty nasty in the last row. She blamed me for making her cheat because I – GL 06:34  
Fuck – GL 06:34  
Didn’t mena to send that half – GL 06:34  
Ffs. - GL 06:37  
She blamed me for making her cheat because I wasn’t meeting her needs. In terms of sex. She said that I was broken, a freak, and that she deserved better. That I wasted years of her life - GL 06:40  
We hadn’t ever talked about it. As far as I knew, everything was fine until she blew up...goes quite a way towards explaining why I like to keep things simple and open. - GL 06:41  
Anyway. I’d always kind of known that I was...not quite normal. Not the same as everyone else. But I didn’t know it has a problem to be fixed, or that she wasn’t happy - GL 06:42  
After what she said, I got myself checked out, but it’s just way I am. Physically and mentally fine, I mean. Just different. - GL 06:42  
After the dust settled, I figured it wouldn’t be a major problem for me, given my absolute lack of a social life. And as I wasn’t exactly gagging for it, I wasn’t going to have to explain to someone new. I sort of accepted it, and carried on – GL 06:43  
But, now we’re dating. And I know that I want to have a relationship with you...but I wasn’t sure what it would look like, or how to handle telling you, or when to tell you, or what I can offer – GL 06:44  
I did some googling after Kew, and i’m fairly sure i’m somewhere on the asexual spectrum, with biromantic feelings – GL 06:45  
I hadn’t heard of it before so i won’t be surprised if you haven’t, either. It’s still new to me and i’m figuring it out – GL 06:45  
But I’ve been thinking about it a lot and i’m pretty sure it’s right. Past experiences, what I feel for you... – GL 06:46  
This is about asexuality in general <https://www.asexuality.org/?q=overview.html> – GL 06:49  
This is about the different types of attraction, which helped me realise that while i want you, want a relationship with you, it might not always/ever be in the expected way <http://wiki.asexuality.org/Attraction> – GL 06:52  
Let me know what you think. I still want to be in a romantic relationship with you, but I think we should talk about what that means for us. – GL 06:58  
I understand if it’s not something you think you can deal with, though – GL 07:02  
Just...let me know – GL 07:02  
Ugh. Too late to go for my run now, and I’m all out of sorts. Why is this so hard – GL 07:12  
Alright. To stop myself obsessing over this all day I’m going to turn my phone off. I’ve got stuff to do and I know I won’t be able to stop myself looking for a notification every two seconds if I don’t – GL 07:14  
I hope you slept well in the end, anyway, and hope I can catch you tonight – GL 07:15

Let me know when you’re available. I’d rather have this conversation in real time so we can explore this without miscommunication. - MH 10:17  
I have the evening free, so we shouldn’t be interrupted. I think it’s important to take our time with this. - MH 10:19

You know, sometimes it’s unmistakeable that you’re in politics – GL 18:59

I am what I am. You value plain speaking and honesty above all else, so I won’t prevaricate. - MH 19:03  
I read what you wrote this morning, and read through the websites you sent. You were correct in your surmise that I hadn’t heard of asexuality. I, as you know, am gay, and do experience sexual attraction. - MH 19:05  
But, I want you, too. As much as you’ll give me, in any way you will have me. That you want me at all is a minor miracle, and I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. - MH 19:06

It’s not such a hardship, sweetheart – GL 19:06

What were the odds that the first person I felt was worth the risk in decades, was also interested in me? Surely they must be vanishingly small, and yet here we are. We will find a way. - MH 19:07

That’s such a relief. After everything with Liz, and what i’ve read about what other people have had to deal with, I was a bit worried about whether you’d think a relationship would be worth the bother, or if you’d rather just be friends, or if you’d think i’ve been leading you on and you’d never want to see me again – GL 19:10  
It’s been on my mind a bit – GL 19:10

I can tell. - MH 19:11  
Forgive me...is it what you started to tell me at the Diogenes? I could see you were building yourself up to saying something that unsettled you, but then you changed the subject. It didn’t feel right to push at the time, but…? - MH 19:12

No surprise birthday parties. Got it. - GL 19:13  
Yes, but I couldn’t find the right words. And then it didn’t seem like the right time. So much else to take in, and when you said that you’d have had to do the paperwork for a close friend as well as a romantic partner...i decided to let it go for another time. - GL 19:15  
Was that ok? - GL 19:16

Of course. It is still, technically, quite early on in the grand scheme of things, despite how deeply we might care for each other. Just over a week, in fact. I might not even have expected to learn about this facet of you until several weeks into our courtship, especially as you’re so keen to take things at a steady pace. - MH 19:19

It still felt a bit like lying... - GL 19:20

Greg, I don’t have a right to know anything you are not ready or willing to share. I have a somewhat unfair advantage given my...party trick. It makes it harder for others to keep things private, and it has been an issue for me before. - MH 19:22  
I know you. I suspect honesty and forthrightness are welded into the Lestrade DNA, and I trust that you’ll tell me things I need to know, when I need to know them. I would much rather have you feel that you don’t need to hide from me, than try to force you into sharing something you’re not comfortable with. - MH 19:23  
In exchange, I’ll be as open and honest as I can. If you’re not sure about something, you can always ask. And thanks to the paperwork, I can now answer. - MH 19:24

Fuck – GL 19:25  
I’m kind of glad that we’re doing this by text, but at the same time I really, really wish you were here so I could hug you – GL 19:25

I definitely wouldn’t be complaining – MH 19:26  
I hadn’t realised quite how much I missed human contact until you came along. Or rather, I knew that *something* was missing, but I couldn’t/wouldn’t find out what it was.- MH 19:27  
Speaking of – and let me know if you’d rather talk about it another day – when you say you want to touch me, what do you imagine? - MH 19:28  
I understand that what you feel isn’t sexual, but if I understand correctly, there is some level of attraction? - MH 19:29

You’re definitely attractive, Mycroft ;) - GL 19:29  
Seriously, though. Never forget that. You’re tall, slim, smart, wear these amazing clothes and are almost unbearably good to me – GL 19:31  
I’m not sure if i’ve got all the right words for it yet – GL 19:33

Just say what comes to mind when you think about it. We can assess afterwards. - MH 19:35

Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you – GL 19:36  
It’s still new to me. I’ve been in sexual relationships before, and I know I want you, but...it’s not clear, in my head, how much of what i’ve done with other people is because it’s what they expected of me, or what I thought was the normal thing to do, and how much was what I actually wanted if stopped to think about it – GL 19:44  
I look at you, hear some of the things you say, and want to wrap you up in the warmest fuzzy blanket and keep you. I want to feed you only your favourite things, and never let your tea get cold. I want to hug you and feel you laugh in my arms. I want lazy weekends curled up together on the sofa. - GL 19:46  
I want to strip back your layers, feel the fabric and your warmth under my hands. I want to see if you get out of the office enough to have freckles, and how far they go. I want to know if your years of active duty have left their marks on you. I bet you’re as skin hungry as me, and I want to fix that – GL 19:47  
It’s just...the want I have for you doesn’t flip over into a need to get my rocks off – GL 19:50  
The sites would say i’m not sex-repulsed. For me, sex is physically nice, I guess, if the circumstances are right. Could take it or leave it on the whole. - GL 19:51  
Still with me? - GL 19:52

I think so. - MH 19:52  
It’s been a while since I had anything approaching what one might call a traditional relationship. Never anything long-term. However, I crave the intimacy, domesticity, that you mention. I am attracted to you, but it’s not just physical. I’d like to share all aspects of my life with you, not just my bed. - MH 19:53  
I will admit that before this morning’s message, I had hoped that we’d develop what we already have into something with sex involved as well, but if it’s not something you’re comfortable with, then I will adapt. I refuse to let an opportunity for mutual happiness go by because I cannot compromise. - MH19:55

I’m not saying ‘never’. I just don’t know for sure what my boundaries are. I’ve never had the opportunity to see what does and doesn’t work for me, knowing what I now know about myself – GL 19:57  
That’s a right pig of a sentence. Do you get what I mean though? - GL 19:57

I think, to borrow your phrase, we need to take it slowly. See what happens, keep talking it through. I’m in no rush. I’m quite looking forward to seeing where this goes, taking my time with you. - MH 19:58

Thank you. Seriously, you have no idea how much this has been weighing on me lately - GL 19:58  
I was psyching myself up for you to be angry, or dismissive, or cruel – GL 19:59  
Not that I thought you would be, exactly. it’s just...it seems to be so outside the things we’ve talked about before, or with anyone, really, I wasn’t sure how you’d take it – GL 19:59

It’s risky to theorise without having all the facts, but I can see why you were worried. Now that the subject has been raised, hopefully future conversations won’t be so hard to get started. – MH 20:00

Fingers crossed – GL 20:00  
Anyway. How was your day? Did you get a lie-in in the end? - GL 20:01

Yes. I even managed to squeeze in a run between meetings, so I’m feeling much more myself. - MH 20:01  
More importantly, I have a better idea of the orchestrator of the problem, and should have a final plan of attack by the end of tomorrow. - MH 20:02

Don’t forget your other mission for Paris! I’m all set up for it, don’t want the effort to go to waste – GL 20:02  
Does this mean that you might be back soon? - GL 20:03

Perhaps. I should know more by the end of tomorrow. - MH 20:03  
And I haven’t forgotten. I went so far as ask Anthea to research where to find the best examples, and she has dutifully scheduled in the necessary time. - MH 20:04  
I think she rather enjoys these low-pressure research tasks. She’s become wise to it though, and has decided to accompany me. She says it’s for security, and to introduce a bit of variability into our routines. Personally I think she was envious of the Bienenstich she saw me finishing when she came to collect me the other day, and is determined not to be left out. - MH 20:05  
It’s quite nice to have company, though I’ve insisted that we don’t talk about work. Taking your advice, and giving us both a break. - MH 20:05

I’m glad you’ve got someone keeping you on the straight and narrow. Pastry first, world peace second! - GL 20:06

If only it were that simple. - MH 20:06

I’m a big believer in the “a little bit of what you fancy does you good” school of thought. Who knows, maybe a chronic lack of decent baked goods in the halls of power is the cause of the world’s evils? – GL 20:07

Hush – you’ll give away my secrets! – MH 20:07

I can imagine it now – you, stalking through the marble corridors, briefcase in hand. What could possibly be contained within? Blackmail photos, maybe, or priceless jewels, a clandestine trade deal worth millions? No. Instead, it’s three perfectly formed fruit tarts, just like the dictator’s dear grandmother used to make – GL 20:08  
Crisis averted, troops stood down, job done. And you’ll be back in London before I know it! - GL 20:08

It sounds like a fever dream Paul Hollywood might have after watching too many Bond films and eating too much raw cake batter. - MH 20:09

Mycroft Holmes. Are you seeing other greying bakers behind my back?! - GL 20:09

It was before I knew you, I swear it! And you are by far the better. Warmer. More handsome. And prone to flights of fancy after a long, stressful day. - MH 20:10

I can feel it catching up with me, I have to say. Though it does seem to inspire some interesting movie plots, i’d probably do better to go bed. Early start tomorrow, got to go buy some tinned pears – GL 20:10

I’m going to have a cup of tea and then turn in. See if I can catch up on some hours myself – MH 20:11

Thank you, again. For everything. Sleep well xxx – GL 20:11

You’ve done the same, or more, for me. Thank you for trusting me. Sweet dreams, Greg – MH 20:12  
x – MH 20:15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! The time has finally come. It's probably got more of myself in it than I'd like to admit, but there we are.  
> I am ace, and while I wasn't as old as Greg when the revelation hit, I was years into marriage. In real life I'm only out to my husband via a series of conversations remarkably like the ones Greg and Mycroft have, and my LGBTQ+ activist friend through the medium of a horribly drunken wedding.  
> While your mileage may vary, and conversations like this are always hard as fuck, it's absolutely worth it. By all means, pick your moment, but don't let 'waiting for the right time' morph into 'I'm going to delay this forever'.


End file.
